


The Go To Guy

by Closer



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Detectives, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-19
Updated: 2011-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:16:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Closer/pseuds/Closer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harvey's client is trying to take on the mob, in the form of John "Three-Guns" Boccacho. Johnny Three-Guns has decided Harvey's an easier target, but fortunately Harvey's top PI and all-around badass, Mike Ross, is on the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Suits meme, prompt: Mike is Harvey's faily-and-yet-oh-so-BAMF go to PI.

When Harvey called, Mike answered the phone on the third ring with a curt, breathless "Hello?"

"Did I call at a bad time?" Harvey asked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Or were you running for the phone?"

"Harvey! My favorite. Can you give me one minute?"

"In your own time," Harvey said.

"Thanks. Stay on the line," Mike said, and Harvey heard rustling noises, then the sound of running, heavy breaths, and finally Mike came back on. "Sorry about that. You know how I always say my stock in trade is unfaithful spouses? Unfaithful spouse just caught me filming him with his mistress, who apparently didn't know he was married. He was chasing me, she was chasing him, it was a whole big -- "

"Don't care," Harvey interrupted, though Mike's rambling monologues on the seamier side of life could be fascinating, so he generally listened for a while before cutting him off.

"I know," Mike said, his voice leveling off, breathing less audible and humor creeping into his tone. "Anyway, I lost him. So what can I do for my favorite lawyer?"

"I need a meet."

"Yeah, and I need an invisibility cloak," Mike sighed, but he continued anyway. "When?"

"Tonight, if possible."

"Fortunately my evening just got very free. I'm not doing the news-stand thing again though, I haven't had dinner yet."

"The usual place? Half an hour?"

"Wanna tell me what this is about?"

"You're the detective. Figure it out. Bring your jammer," Harvey said, and hung up.

He was, in fact, already at the Usual Place, exercising his privilege as a big-tipping regular by making use of the phone in the kitchen manager's office. He closed the door behind him, nodded to the sous-chef, avoided someone running past with a platter of steaks, and slipped out into the dining room.

The man who'd followed him from Pearson Hardman's offices to the restaurant was sitting at a table with a view of the entire room, ostensibly reading his menu.

Harvey returned to his booth and ordered a glass of wine, a plate of foie gras on toast points as an appetizer, and the Duck a l'Orange, which would take half an hour to arrive, much like Mike.

Mike did, in fact, arrive thirty seconds ahead of the entree, tossing a backpack into the booth before sliding in. He popped the last toast point in his mouth and managed a garbled "Right on time," with a (fortunately closed-mouth) grin. The duck was brought out before Harvey could reply and the waiter, seeing Mike, produced a second plate after a subtle nod from Harvey. Mike dished himself half the duck and a huge spoonful of potatoes Dauphinoise.

"Has anyone ever told you your table manners could best be described as absentee?" Harvey asked.

"Sue me, I'm hungry," Mike said. "I'm jamming us, nobody can hear. Dig in."

Harvey took a small bite of his half of the duck, pointedly. Mike swallowed and rolled his eyes.

"What's the problem?" he asked, shoveling another bite of potatoes into his mouth. "You need research? Need someone tailed?"

"The reverse," Harvey said. "There's a man sitting on the other side of the room who's been nursing a glass of water since I arrived."

Mike casually leaned out of the booth, twisted around, and flagged down a waiter, ordering a glass of house red.

"Yep, I see him," he said, turning back and continuing to eat. "He's not armed."

"He's been following me since I left home this morning," Harvey said.

"When did you pick him up?"

"My driver picked up his car. I got a look at his face before I walked in. Every time I've gone out he's followed me."

Mike gestured with his fork for Harvey to stop talking. He finished chewing, swallowed, and nodded his thanks at the waiter who brought him his wine.

"I searched you on the way over," he said, sipping the wine. "Jesus, this is good duck. Anyway, as far as I, Lexis Nexis, and Google are concerned, you have three open cases that might merit a tail. Man, you make a lot of enemies too. I'm surprised it took this long. You know who set it up, or you want me to dig it out?"

"I want you to help me shake him on the way home, and then I want you to sweep my condo for bugs," Harvey said.

"Seriously?" Mike laughed. "Harvey, the odds of someone bugging your condo are pretty astronomical, unless it's the FBI. You haven't pissed off the FBI lately, have you? Because I take hazard pay for fucking with G-men, they're bastards. And there's really no point in shaking a tail when all you're doing is going home. Unless you want him to think you're not. In which case I need more information, because I hate playing with only half a deck. Also you should kiss me."

"Excuse me?" Harvey asked, tilting an eyebrow.

"Feed me a piece of duck and then kiss me," Mike said. "Watch how our friend reacts."

Harvey considered it for a second, then scooped up a piece of duck, offering it to Mike, who took it delicately off his fork. Mike swallowed, a smear of orange sauce on his lip, and Harvey leaned in, kissing him, eyes watching his stalker under half-lowered lids.

"He looks perturbed," he said, leaning back and giving Mike his most charming smile.

"Man, you're good at that," Mike said. "You should come work for me."

"You can't afford me."

"Touche. Anyway that means he's off his game and we can play bribe-a-waiter. You good to go? Good," Mike said, off Harvey's nod. He subtly signaled for the waiter who'd brought him the wine.

"Anything I can get for you gentlemen?" he asked, beaming.

"You know the guy who's been drinking tap water all night?" Mike asked.

"Yes, sir," the waiter said, with the kind of total impassivity that indicated the entire waitstaff knew him and knew he was being a cheapskate.

"There's fifty bucks each in it for you and two of your friends if you can dump a tray of food on him and keep his sightline blocked until we're gone," Mike said. He nodded at Harvey, who gave him a narrow look but took out his wallet and produced three fifties. "Dinner too, Harvey, we're bolting."

Harvey sighed and produced another hundred.

"Did you drive, or take the town car?" Mike asked, as the waiter tucked the cash into his palm.

"Car club. I have it for the night."

"Anything flashy?"

"It's a car club, Mike, they're all flashy," Harvey said.

"God, you're an amateur. Give him your valet ticket. Tell the valet to have his car waiting," Mike told the waiter, who nodded.

"Have a good night," the waiter said, looking sly, and walked briskly off.

Five minutes later, there was a thunderous crash and a yelp.

"That's our cue," Mike said, grabbing Harvey's wrist. "I'm driving."

 

Mike drove like a maniac, but Harvey had implicit faith in his abilities; he'd seen Mike's reflexes in action before, and once Mike was satisfied they weren't being followed, he slowed the black '74 Corvette to a more sedate pace.

"So, you want to explain to me what this is about?" he asked, heading unerringly for Harvey's high-rise. He'd only been there once, but Harvey knew Mike had an eerily good memory.

"One of our clients, Eric Drew -- "

"Seriously, his name is Eric Drew?" Mike asked, hanging a sharp left. "Never trust a man with two first names."

"Thank you for that piece of homespun PI advice," Harvey replied. "He's suing over a piece of land by the docks. He says he owns it and wants to develop it. Someone else is currently running a shipping company out of it."

"This didn't come up in Lexis Nexis," Mike said.

"No, it wouldn't, but let's talk about those three cases later," Harvey replied. "He's suing the owner of the shipping company, John Boccacho."

"Johnny Three-Guns?" Mike demanded, stopping at a red light and turning to Harvey. "I thought you said you were the best closer in the city."

"I am."

"So how did you not talk some doucheface with two first names out of suing a Mafia capo?"

"I was told in no uncertain terms to make sure Eric Drew didn't take his business elsewhere," Harvey replied. "He brings in about eight million a year for the firm."

The light turned green; horns blew. Mike eased the car forward, fingers clenched on the wheel.

"You think they've got a hit on you?" Mike asked finally.

"You tell me."

"Your tail was unarmed. They don't think you're a physical threat. Probably they want to know what you're getting up to," Mike said, after a pause for reflection. "They're doing recon. If they think _Eric Drew_ is going through with it, they might knock you off to teach him a lesson. Or they might go straight for him."

"He has a round-the-clock bodyguard."

"That makes you an easy target, then. Who is this guy, anyway?"

"Real estate speculator."

Mike pulled into Harvey's parking garage. "I should have guessed that. Either that or lawyer," he added, grinning at Harvey as he turned off the engine. "So why the fun-and-games ditching him just to go home? You'll have him or someone else at your building again tomorrow."

"I don't want them to know I know yet," Harvey said. "It gives me a distinct upper hand."

"You must have really interesting personal relationships," Mike said dryly, following him as he swiped his access card, entered the garage elevator lobby, and got into one of the waiting elevators.

"Personal relationships are for the weak," Harvey informed him.

"Winning, not caring," Mike murmured. "Gotcha."

"You still have your jammer on?"

Mike produced the little black box from a pocket, waggling it. "I'll have to turn it off when I sweep your place, though. When we get inside, I'll shut the jammer down. Turn the television on and go about your nightly routine. Once I know you're clear of cameras, I'll do the sweep. Ignore me until I give the signal."

Harvey left Mike to his weird little technological rituals; he turned the television on, set it to CNN, and poured himself a drink, relaxing on the sofa. After five or six minutes spent standing by the doorway with one of the mysterious devices from his backpack, Mike started creeping around the condo, waving a foot-long antenna in front of him, eyes fixed on the iPhone it was plugged into.

Mike being quiet was an unusual occurrence, and something Harvey felt he probably ought to savor, but it was too weird. Instead he watched Mike work.

After about an hour, Mike took off his jacket and tossed it lightly onto a chair, rolling up the sleeves of the shirt he was wearing underneath. Harvey eyed the shoulder-holster he wore, always something of an unsettling sight. Mike seemed to oscillate between seasoned professional and complete goofball, and Harvey was never sure which one was the act. The gun under his left arm always reminded him that Mike, despite his young face and cheap suits and ridiculous skinny ties, did a very dangerous job.

Finally, after sweeping both levels of the condo, squirming around under the stairs that led up to the bedroom, and digging around in the circuit-box of the elevator, Mike walked into the living room, dusted himself off, and announced, "You're clean. Though I have to say, you own more shoes than I think is sane."

"You went in my closet?" Harvey asked. "Why would they bug my closet?"

"I'm very thorough. Also I wanted to rummage in your drawers and find out where you keep your valuables," Mike said. Harvey glared. "Okay, okay, relax, I'm kidding. I wanted to make sure none of your suits were carrying bugs. They can do that now, you know. God bless the Cold War, I guess." He sat on the arm of the chair, hands clasped loosely between his knees, his gun a dull smear of darkness under his arm. "Look, not to sound like I'm trying to rustle up business for myself, but Johnny Three-Guns is a serious issue, Harvey. I think you should let me do some digging at least. Find out what he's planning to do about you. Or to you," he added darkly.

"Officially I'm going to pay you to find out anything we can use against him in the lawsuit," Harvey said.

"Ugh, that means I'm on Eric Drew's retainer now too," Mike groaned. "Great."

"Calm down, drama queen," Harvey said. "You work for me."

"I'm expensing my cab ride home."

"Take the 'vette," Harvey said carelessly. "You can pick me up in the morning, help me shake the tail again."

"I'm not your personal chaeuffer, you know," Mike complained, but Harvey just smirked. "Fine. I'll have a report for you tomorrow morning. Eight?"

"Six-thirty."

"That's indecent," Mike said, shrugging into his jacket.

"Don't be late," Harvey told him.

 

Mike supposed most people didn't grow up wanting to be a private detective, at least not after the age of about ten or so.

He hadn't, either. He knew it was a tough job. He'd spent his childhood listening to Gram tell him stories about her father, who had been a Pinkerton back in the twenties and thirties; she'd married a lifelong beat cop, and their son, Mike's dad, had been an NYPD detective by the time he died. Mike had thought he'd go one better and become a lawyer, work for the DA's office, put bad guys away with words instead of a gun.

Then he'd been kicked out of school.

After about a year of dicking around, smoking pot with Trevor and doing shady shit for the cash, he'd had to help Gram pack up to go into the care home, and he'd come across her father's Pinkerton badge. He'd rubbed a thumb across the tarnished copper, wondering what his great-grandfather would make of him.

Probably not much.

But it had given him an idea, opening up at least a few avenues in what he'd thought was the dead end of his life. He knew enough about the business to make it work, he thought -- he didn't want to be a cop, but he could still be a detective. And his dad still had buddies on the force who offered him a hand, loaned him cash to get set up, hooked him up with his first few clients. He'd drifted slowly but purposefully away from Trevor and Jenny, the late nights and unstable hours a good excuse, and now...

Well, now he had a job that pulled in the money to keep his grandmother in the fancy private home, with enough left over to pay the rent on his shitty studio and keep him, if not always _well_ fed, at least off the brink of starvation.

Coming home to his place after being in Harvey's -- regardless of the fact that he'd come home in a Corvette -- was kind of a let-down. Harvey had a sweet condo and an amazing view. He paid well, and was one of Mike's more regular, low-stress clients, but Mike couldn't help a little twinge of envy. He liked his job, but...well, that could have been him, if he hadn't been a moron who let Trevor talk him into selling that math test.

Mike pulled his chair up to his kitchen table, opened his laptop, and started doing the preliminary research for the report he'd promised Harvey in the morning. He liked research, and it was easy to get lost in it, to lose track of ti...

He woke to the blare of his alarm, informing him that it was six in the morning. Mike sat bolt upright, then groaned and wiped some drool off his laptop. Some night he was going to get a full eight hours in his actual bed, but apparently last night had not been it. Now he had half an hour to wash, dress, and present himself at Harvey's high-rise.

When he ran outside twenty minutes later the Corvette was, fortunately, untouched -- Mike had left his business card under the windshield wiper, and the local 'jack artists knew better than to mess with him.

Harvey was standing outside his building when Mike pulled up, and as he braked Harvey raised a hand, shaking the watch on his wrist and mouthing "Late!" at him. It was six thirty-two.

"I'm not holding your door for you," Mike called from inside the car. He popped the lock and Harvey climbed in, looking well-assembled as usual. "Sleep well, darling?"

"Like a log, dearest," Harvey replied, while Mike pulled back out into traffic. "Got my report?"

"Glovebox. Keep quiet, I'm scanning for our tail."

Harvey was silent and still, the only noise the rustle of paper as he read Mike's preliminary information. It wasn't much -- some news stories about Johnny Three-Guns, a few about Eric "two first names" Drew, and paperwork Harvey had probably already seen about their respective claims on the land (and the warehouse on top of it) that was in dispute. He'd slipped a conflict-resolution pamphlet in the back, and when Harvey got to it, he snorted.

"I don't think John Boccacho is into trust-building exercises," he said, closing the folder.

"His idea of a trust fall happens at the edge of a pier," Mike agreed. "This is an old-school Godfather bad-guy."

"Why do they call him Three Guns?"

Mike smiled. He'd found their tail and was working on lulling him into a false sense of security. Fortunately he had Manhattan memorized, and he kept current on construction zones.

"He always has a backup plan. You pull two guns, he's got three, get it?" he asked, affecting a gangsterish accent. "That's how he's survived this long. He doesn't really belong in the twenty-first century, but he knows how to plan. That's why he's studying you now."

"Any idea what he'd hope to accomplish by killing me?"

Mike shrugged. "If it were me, I'd think it'd scare off anyone else who wants to take the case."

Harvey made an interested, thoughtful sound.

"Get ready to hang on tight," Mike added. "Try not to freak out."

He could see Harvey, out of the corner of his eye, open his mouth to answer when Mike suddenly pulled left. He veered across a lane of parallel traffic and two lanes of oncoming traffic, into the driveway of a construction zone. Men in hard hats scattered ahead of the Corvette and horns blew behind them as Mike swung hard left again, bypassing a couple of backhoes, and burst back out onto the street, heading in the opposite direction. In the rearview mirror he saw the distant image of their tail trying desperately to flip a U-turn in the middle of rush hour traffic.

Mike had to admit, he did love his job.

Harvey, in the seat next to him, looked unruffled.

"You know, it's not often I stare speeding death in the face before lunch," he remarked.

"You're handling it pretty well," Mike assured him.

"I have very good health insurance."

Mike took a circuitous route to Harvey's office building, but he didn't catch anyone else tailing them. He dropped Harvey off at the loading dock, just in case, with the assurance that he'd get the Corvette back to the car club and send Harvey anything else he picked up that could help them.

When he pulled the Corvette into the car club's garage, a tall, attractive blonde woman stepped out, studied him, and said, "Harvey, you've changed."

"Mr. Specter sends his regrets," Mike said, placing the keys in her hand. "It's a beautiful car."

"Thank you," she replied. "Are you an enthusiast?"

"Not especially, but I can appreciate good handling," he added. She swiped a finger over the side-mirror, drawing a line in the dust they'd picked up at the construction site.

"It's not really an off-road vehicle," she said.

"Coulda fooled me," he replied with a smile. She smiled back. "Do I need to sign it in or anything?"

"We'll take it from here. Bob!" she called. "Cleanup on the 'vette."

"You got it," Bob's voice echoed back.

"Thank you, Mr....?" she prompted.

"Rosenbaum," Mike said. He never gave his real name if he could help it. "Mitchell Rosenbaum. Nice to meet you," he added, doffed an imaginary hat, and went on his way. He had a lot of snitches to talk to if he wanted to get a crash course in Johnny Three-Guns' business operation.

 

There were a lot of things Harvey could have (should have) done about the people following him. He could have told Jessica, who probably would have decided Harvey's life was more important than Eric Drew's account with the firm, but he hadn't made Senior Partner by whining to Jessica whenever things got hard. He could have told the police he was being followed, but that would probably have made him look kind of crazy, and if they did believe him it would still have escalated things out of his control. Harvey liked having things firmly in his control.

So he'd gone to Mike, because Mike not only fell firmly under Harvey's control -- at least, most of the time -- but could do things and go places the police couldn't. In theory he was out there now, doing whatever it was he did to ferret out information Harvey needed. He'd never asked, and Mike wisely didn't volunteer details. He just delivered the goods. Harvey could respect a man who got the job done.

Donna always accused him of dramatic posing when he stood in front of the big glass windows in his office, but the truth was it helped him get his head in order. The cityscape by now was familiar to him, something to fix his eyes on while he thought.

"Harvey, reception says the consigliere is here to see you," Donna said over the intercom. Harvey smiled.

"Tell them to keep him waiting for ten minutes, then send him in," he said.

"Should I push your meeting with Ms. Sanyal back?"

"No, but keep an ear on the conversation. You'll know when to break in," Harvey said.

"Yes I will," Donna agreed smugly.

He spent the ten minutes with his record collection, which was always soothing; he'd just decided on Albert King when Donna showed Boccacho's lawyer into the room. He turned, hand outstretched, and almost missed a beat.

"David," he said, putting on a grin. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Fancy indeed," David Peterson replied, gripping his hand and matching his grin. Fake, fake, but Harvey hadn't known it would be David, who'd graduated sixth just behind him at Harvard. "Nice digs."

"I do all right," Harvey replied, waving him into a chair and settling on the couch. It threw him -- he'd expected some ambulance-chasing low-life, and he certainly hadn't pegged David as someone who would represent the mob. "So you're working for John Boccacho?"

"Pays the bills," David said, his smile turning sharp and bright. "And you're working for Eric Drew. Small world."

"So it seems. You still with Linda?"

"Got our first kid on the way," David boasted.

"That's a hell of a thing. So...?" Harvey settled back, unbuttoning his jacket. "I wish I could say this was unexpected. It's definitely unscheduled."

"Yeah, I can tell you're really busy," David said, eyes drifting to the records on the shelf. He opened his briefcase and took out a folder, holding it out. "I come bearing an offering."

"Settlement?" Harvey asked, leaving him hanging with the folder.

"For a start," David agreed.

"Drew's not interested in settlements," Harvey said, but he took the folder anyway. He opened it, scanning the offer letter. "And definitely not this settlement."

"Boccacho's been maintaining upkeep on the warehouse and making improvements."

"The property's worth a fortune in the right hands, and we both know it, just like we both know your client can do better. This is a tenth of what Drew stands to make developing it -- _after_ construction."

"In this market? Be realistic, Harvey."

"Sorry, the settlement's a fantasy to start with," Harvey said, tossing it into David's briefcase. "I can't build anything on that. Neither can my client."

David sighed and pulled a thin envelope out of the top of the briefcase. "He's prepared to go to this," he said, passing it over. Harvey unfolded the letter inside.

It was higher, almost high enough to tempt Drew, he thought. But if Boccacho was willing to go that high, he might bid up.

"Look, Drew wants the land. This is just proof to me that Boccacho knows he doesn't own the warehouse he's been _keeping up_ ," Harvey said.

"That's only half the deal," David replied, and folded his hands together, fingers flexing over his knuckles. "The other half of the deal concerns you. I told Boccacho you're a hard dealer and when you go to court, you win. I've also told him you're the best closer in New York."

"Flattery's cheap," Harvey said.

"He's willing to offer you incentive to take the second offer to Drew and close him on it. Come on, Harvey, we both know you can," David said, when Harvey started to shake his head. "Boccacho's got business going on, he has dealings and he's...got some modifications made to the warehouse."

"Secret rooms and prohibition tunnels?" Harvey guessed. David gave him a vaguely guilty look.

"He's offering half a mil on top of the settlement, to you personally, if you can sell Drew on the deal. Tax-free," David added lightly.

Harvey rested his elbow on the arm of the couch, chin on his closed fist. "David, what the hell are you doing working for this guy?"

"Come on, Harvey, don't tell me some of your clients aren't the least bit shady," David protested.

"Hey, I cross a couple of lines now and then, but not that one," Harvey said. "You're working for the mob. For a guy who pulls peoples' fingers off when they don't pay up. What happened?"

"Not all of us had Jessica Pearson looking out for us. It's tough out there, Harvey. Boccacho's a good employer."

"Yeah, till you screw up and find yourself in the river."

"It's not like that." David said, and then swallowed. "For me."

"Who is it like that for?" Harvey asked, tensing.

David looked down, then back at him. "Boccacho's a piece of work. I know that, you think I'm an idiot? I want this whole thing settled out of court. Give him what he wants and he'll reward you. Or...to put it another way, give him what he wants and he won't punish you."

"First of all, I'm not going to take a bribe to sell a client on a bad deal, not only because it'd put me under Boccacho's thumb where somehow he's already got you," Harvey said. "Second, you can tell Boccacho I don't like being followed and I don't like being threatened. Third, if he puts a hurt on me, there are three lawyers in this firm lined up to take my place." A lie, but if Mike's speculation was right, it might tip the balance in his favor. "I still have friends in the DA's office. Boccacho doesn't want to screw with me, David."

"Do you seriously want me to repeat that you threatened John Boccacho?" David asked.

"It's not a threat. It's just a fact."

 _Harvey_ , Donna's voice rang out over the intercom. He was going to have to buy her lunch for that perfectly-timed interruption. _Ms. Sanyal is here._

"I'm afraid I can't keep her waiting," Harvey said, standing. David closed the briefcase and stood too, straightening his cuffs unnecessarily.

"Take the offer to Drew, at least," he said.

"I'm going to recommend he decline," Harvey said. "Good to see you again, David."

"Watch your back, Harvey," David warned. He ignored Harvey's outstretched hand, hurrying out past Donna, who gave Harvey a wide-eyed _Wow_ through the glass.

"Is Sanyal actually here?" he asked the air.

 _No, but it sounded like things were getting heated. Did good?_ she asked.

"Did good," he replied, picking up his desk phone. "Get me Mike on the line."

"Ross Investigations, no lawyer too big," Mike answered.

"How's the digging going?" Harvey asked.

"Not well. Boccacho's slick."

"Here's a toehold for you," Harvey said. "David Peterson. Harvard Law '98. He's a lawyer working for Boccacho."

Mike whistled. "Good toehold. I'll look into it."

"He just offered me half a million dollars to sell Drew on a bad deal."

"Hell, Harvey, for that kind of money -- "

"I don't take bribes."

"Of course not," Mike said easily. "Let's do a meet."

"Tonight?"

"Tomorrow. Not the usual place. There's a bar near your office, I'll text you the address. Worried about your tail?"

"Mildly," Harvey said.

"Professionally speaking, I advise you to work late and catch a ride home with one of the security guards. I'll set it up, I know a guy."

"I'm amazed," Harvey deadpanned.

"Well, I'm amazing. See you tomorrow," Mike said, and hung up just as Donna, on the other side of the glass, stood to welcome Ms. Sanyal and show her in.

 

Around eight o'clock, one of the building's security officers showed up at Harvey's office to take him home; if they were followed, Harvey didn't notice. The next morning, Harvey met Ray outside the building's loading dock, though they did pick up a maroon coupe that followed them until the barrier of the office building's parking garage cut him off. Ray, unnecessarily to Harvey's mind, walked him to the garage elevator and through the lobby, only leaving his side once Harvey had passed lobby security.

He didn't like the claustrophobic sensation that people were watching him, or that others were watching out for him. He didn't like feeling that he couldn't go where he pleased when he pleased. But Donna, perhaps intentionally, perhaps at random, had scheduled him an entire day of meetings at the office. Just when he was thinking about going to get a hot dog from the cart outside the building for lunch, a delivery man showed up with sandwiches for both of them.

"You're handling me," he said, as Donna passed him a paper-wrapped sandwich. "Don't think I haven't noticed."

"You're having delusions," she told him cheerfully, and tossed him a bag of chips. "Eat up, WitSec."

He did manage to duck out while she was running some files down to the copy room, or else she probably would have insisted on escorting him to the meeting with Mike. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy Donna's company, but showing up to a semi-professional meeting with a fierce redheaded bodyguard wasn't his idea of proper.

Besides, it felt good to be outside with nobody watching, even if he'd had to leave through the janitorial office on the side of the building.

A block from Pearson Hardman, Mike fell into step with him, on his left, between him and the street.

"Donna called," he said, by way of explanation. Harvey rolled his eyes. "She also told me Boccacho threatened you, which you neglected to mention."

"I'm a big dog, I can growl back," Harvey told him.

"What am I, a puppy?" Mike asked. "There's a reason Drew wanders around the city with a bodyguard."

They stopped at a Don't Walk signal; Harvey could see the bar down the block, the sign already lit, lightbulbs in it flickering.

"Boccacho sent a lawyer to threaten me. I feel distinctly unthreatened."

"So, what, you're waiting for some guy with no last name to show up at your condo with a bat?" Mike asked, crossing when the signal changed.

"It won't come to that. He's got something hidden in the warehouse. He'll bid higher to keep it," Harvey said. "This is the dance. You make a move, they make a move."

"You don't dance with career criminals much," Mike replied. "They tend to have two left feet. You make a move, they break your toes."

"He's still waiting to hear back from me," Harvey said. "I'm taking the offer to Drew tomorrow as a form -- "

At first he wasn't sure what was happening. One second he'd been in the middle of a word, and the next he was falling, landing hard on his elbows, Mike flailing on top of him. He thought Mike had tripped, but then he heard the noise -- two soft whistles, almost like birdsong, and an echoing pair of dull thuds. Brick dust rained down on him. Mike had a hand on his head, body pinning him to the ground.

"Stay down," Mike said harshly in his ear, and Harvey realized what the whistles were: bullets fired from a silenced gun. "Stay there, I need to -- "

He felt Mike's weight shift as he rolled off.

"They're turning around," he said, pulling Harvey up, not to stand but sideways, into a crouch behind a parked car. "Still think Boccacho's not playing seriously?"

"Fire back!" Harvey ordered. "You have a gun!"

"This is a crowded street!" Mike replied. People were passing, staring at them as if they were crazy -- it was amazing what would escape the notice of a New Yorker at rush hour. "If we run we can make it into the bar."

"No," Harvey said, even as Mike tried to hustle him forward.

"Are you nuts? Harvey, they're trying to shoot you!"

"Three guns, right?" Harvey said. "He'll have someone in the bar."

Mike paused, stared at him, and then nodded. "You're probably right. Okay, this way," he added, and tugged Harvey back, back from the oncoming car and the bar entrance, into the curving embrace of a florist's sidewalk display. "Cover your ears," Mike continued, digging a small cone-shaped device out of his ever-present bag. "This is going to get loud."

Harvey put his hands over his ears as Mike plugged the cone into his phone and tapped a few commands on the screen. He still wasn't prepared for the sheer wall of noise that hit him -- the shrill wail of a police siren right next to his ear.

The dark car -- windows rolled down, shadowy figures inside -- had been prowling back along the street, but when the siren went it sped up. Harvey, peering through some rather nice bouquets of sunflowers, saw a man emerge from the bar, look both ways hastily, and hurry down the street.

Mike pulled him into the florist's shop, cutting the siren, and ducked under the counter, much to the surprise of the stunned cashier.

"Works like a charm," he announced, as they hurried through the back of the shop, around giant cold-storage boxes filled with flowers and through a door that led into some kind of back hallway. With an eerily unerring sense of direction, Mike guided him down the hall, through another door, into the lobby of a hotel, and out to the cab stand in front of it. He pushed Harvey into the back, climbed into the front with the driver, who glared at him, and gave him an address somewhere across town.

"We could go back to my condo," Harvey said, pretending he wasn't breathless and shaking a little from the adrenaline.

"They'll have someone there," Mike said, twisting in the seat to talk to him through the hatch. "They don't know where we are, now. We can go anywhere."

Harvey stifled the urge to tell Mike he _wanted_ to go home, that he was covered in dust and his heart was beating a mile a minute. This was why he paid Mike, after all.

 

Mike deliberately picked a bar on the other side of Manhattan, to give Harvey time to calm down. He could see Harvey rigidly containing panic in the back seat; it was a natural reaction.

He wasn't feeling precisely calm himself, either. There had been two bullets, the first one slightly lower than the other and the second one angled back. The second had been meant for Harvey, but the first had been intended to drop Mike so they'd have a clear shot. Boccacho couldn't know who he was yet -- Mike covered his tracks well -- but now they knew his face. They'd have seen him protecting Harvey, and they'd know he was involved. He made a mental note to tell the receptionist at Gram's care home to warn their security people. It was a long shot that Boccacho would be able to find out who he was, and even longer that they'd be able to find out about Gram, but people were always willing to talk for cash.

In the backseat, Harvey was wiping his scraped and bloody hands on a handkerchief, using the edge of it to flick red dust off his shoulders. Mike paid half-attention to that, still scanning the traffic around them to make sure they weren't being followed. He stifled a smile when Harvey began inspecting the elbows of his suit, plucking disgustedly at the loose threads caused by the fall. He hadn't freaked out, which counted for a lot in Mike's book -- he'd kept his head, pulled them back from the bar, and done what he was told when Mike took over.

"How did they know where I'd be?" Harvey asked, still plucking at his scraped-up jacket.

"How'd you leave the building?"

"Side-door."

"They know you've been dodging them, they probably had guys at every door they could find," Mike said. "No need to follow, just call the gun car."

The cabdriver gave him a wary look.

"We're cool, they're not following us," Mike assured him, and palmed him a twenty.

By the time they walked into their new bar, Mike was feeling settled and confident, and Harvey looked at least back to his usual self, the personality that Mike secretly thought of as Striding Around Owning Epic Shit.

"Come on, we'll fix you up," Mike said, leading Harvey past the elegant bar and swanky seating areas to the bathroom. He maneuvered Harvey to lean against the sink-counter, then wetted a paper towel and rubbed some soap into it, scrubbing the shallow scrapes on Harvey's palms. "Sorry I got a little rough."

"Beats a bullet," Harvey said, hands still, turned palm-up while Mike cleaned them. He had nice hands -- smooth, blunt-fingered, more workmanlike than Mike would expect from a high-priced lawyer. "Your ear's bloody."

"Debris," Mike said, folding the paper towel over and wiping dried blood away from the nick in his ear. He knew, because with his memory he couldn't help knowing, that it was where the second bullet had narrowly missed him as they went down. "Do you feel disoriented or lightheaded?"

Harvey shook his head. "I feel like I need a stiff drink."

"Go get yourself one, I think you earned it," Mike said, drying Harvey's hands carefully. "Order me a Coke, I'll join you in a second. Don't worry, I'll have eyes on you," he added, when Harvey frowned. "I need to make some calls."

Harvey tested the palm of his left hand with the fingers of his right, prodding gently to gauge how sore they were as he walked out. Mike followed, standing in the hall, shifting back and forth between watching Harvey and scanning the room.

He made three calls. The first was to Mrs. Thorpe, on the ground floor of his building -- there was a Mrs. Thorpe in every community, a retiree who knew everyone's business, an old dude who liked watching from the window or a woman who sat on the step and talked to everyone who came by.

"Oh, it's exciting!" she said, when he warned her to watch for men casing the building or dark cars circling the block. "I'll put Janie's kids on it, they're sharp-eyed little nippers. What do I do if the bad guys show up?"

"Get the kids inside and call me, and then play stupid if they try to talk to you," Mike said.

"Aye aye, Mr. Detective!"

The second call was to Gram's care home, and the man on the front desk promised to put the word around discreetly to security.

The third was to Harvey's building, to ask the doorman about extra security. Turned out the high rise had a basement access shaft from the next building over, if Mr. Specter didn't mind ducking a little. Mike assured him that he wouldn't, and hung up.

"All quiet on the western front," he announced, seating himself at the bar next to Harvey, who was nursing what looked like a scotch. "I've made arrangements so that you can sleep in your own bed tonight, and I can sleep on your couch."

"That's presuming a lot," Harvey said.

"Not really. I know you have a couch."

"You don't know you're permitted to sleep on it."

Mike gave him a wide smile. "You can accept my proposal for round-the-clock bodyguarding, or you can fire me."

Harvey glanced at him, and he saw the sweep of his eyes over his body, a professional appraisal. He knew what he looked like, slim to the point of scrawny, but he'd been a wrestler in high school and he was in training at a dojo. He could take on anyone up to about twice his weight, and after that...well, that was what the gun was for.

"Your building doesn't have a dress code," he said, deliberately misinterpreting Harvey's gaze.

"You'd do all right if they did," Harvey allowed. "Rumpled looks good on you."

"What, this old thing?" Mike asked, laughing. "So do you want my report or not?"

Harvey gestured dismissively for him to continue.

"So our story begins with David Peterson," Mike said, sipping his Coke. "Sixth in his class at Harvard, behind one Harvey Specter, like you thought I wouldn't catch that."

"Testing you."

"You knew I knew. Anyway, Peterson's a promising junior partner at a firm specializing in criminal defense. Racked up a lot of gambling debts that mysteriously went away around the time he started going to Gambler's Anonymous meetings and left his firm to become -- "

" -- John Boccacho's personal attorney," Harvey finished for him.

"That's the size of it. It's easy to draw the inferences: Boccacho paid off his gambling debts and now he owns him. I'll say this, he clearly got him clean. But that puts him in for life, because even if he pays off what he owes Boccacho for buying his debts, he can be blackmailed. And no legit firm is going to hire a mob lawyer."

"Some lines you shouldn't cross," Harvey murmured.

"No argument here," Mike agreed. "Now where it gets interesting is that Peterson's not just an emissary or the guy you call when one of your guys gets busted by the police. There's no paper trail, but according to hearsay he set up a huge construction project down by the docks about eight years ago."

"I knew Boccacho was renovating that place," Harvey said.

"Not exactly," Mike replied, and let it hang there for dramatic effect before adding, "I think he built it."

"Buildings don't just _appear_ in Manhattan," Harvey said.

"They do if you don't zone or officially hire the labor," Mike replied. "There's no residents in the area to complain about the noise. I think Boccacho picked a parcel of land that was already in dispute, quietly put up a building so he could prove possession, and used Peterson to do his dirty work. Plus he has a custom-built shelter for whatever it is he's getting up to down there."

"Nothing we can put before a judge, though."

"Nothing yet," Mike said. "I'm not done with Johnny Three-Guns. But right now, my primary concern is keeping you alive. So the question is, what are you going to do?"

Harvey gestured at the bartender, who poured him another scotch. "Drew gets back from Vancouver tomorrow. We're meeting at nine; I'm supposed to present Boccacho's offer. I can withdraw from the case, but that probably means losing Drew's account."

"Might not matter. You gave a crimelord lip, Harvey. They don't forgive easily."

"I'm less worried about him than I am about my boss's reaction to losing a multimillion-dollar client."

"What's he going to say to the offer?"

Harvey rubbed his face. "I can tell him not to take it. Or...his instinct is going to be to keep fighting, but I can close him on the idea of taking it if I come at him from the right angle. He takes the offer, I think this whole thing goes away. He doesn't..." he shrugged.

"My instinct for self-preservation, which is going to have to talk for both of us since yours is clearly lacking, says you should sell him the deal, get it done, and walk away," Mike said. "On the other hand, Boccacho's a dick and I want to see him go down."

"I'm not interested in taking him down," Harvey said. "I'm interested in making my client happy and keeping myself alive."

"I think you're going to have to pick one," Mike ventured.

Harvey shot back the rest of his drink in a single swallow.

"But maybe not until tomorrow," Mike added, sensing he should probably get them out of the bar. "Come on. I have an alternate route into your place that should be really fun."


	2. Chapter 2

Mike's 'alternate route' involved some kind of telecom access tunnel between buildings, a round pipe four feet high stocked with wires. The building engineer who let them in joked that they'd better not be terrorists.

It brought them out in the basement of Harvey's high-rise. They took the stairs up to the ground floor, then slipped into an elevator without being seen from the street. Inside, Mike leaned against the wall and exhaled dramatically.

"When we get up there, let me go in first," he said, and Harvey nodded. Mike popped the snap on his holster.

"Oh, now you pull a gun?" Harvey asked.

"We were on a street full of people before. I wasn't going to get into a gunfight with that kind of crowd around. God knows who else was packing," Mike replied, as the elevator let them off. Harvey followed Mike out, stood where Mike pointed while he opened the door, and waited outside until Mike yelled, "Okay! You're clear."

"Small mercy," Harvey drawled, stepping inside. He still didn't feel a hundred percent settled, but being home helped. Mike was standing in front of the glass, hands on his hips.

"You got some sheets or something we can hang in front of your giant wall of vulnerability?" he asked. Harvey sighed.

"Is that necessary?"

"There are two different buildings a sniper could fire from with a reasonable expectation of hitting me right now," Mike said. Harvey went to the bookshelf, took down a remote, and hit a button. Elegant wooden slats descended from the ceiling, blocking out the glass and dimming the room considerably.

"Awesome," Mike said, looking genuinely awed.

"I'm taking a shower," Harvey announced. "There's food if you're hungry, help yourself."

He left Mike investigating his kitchen, climbed the stairs to his bedroom, lowered the slats there as well, and stripped down on his way to the shower -- normally he wouldn't throw his clothes on the floor, but the jacket was ruined anyway and there were bloodstains on his shirt, little flecks from his scraped palms.

He held his hands under the water, not to clean them (Mike had seen to that) but just to feel the soft burn, try to hydrate the dry scraped skin. Next he let it beat down on his shoulders, turning so the spray hit his back and neck. He'd be sore tomorrow, but he'd be alive.

He leaned his forehead against the tile, breathing through that moment of shock again that someone had actually come after him with a gun. It was ridiculous; it was like a gangster movie. Things like this didn't happen in real life, at least not anymore.

Mike had saved his life.

He liked Mike, rumpled suits and all, and he had always respected his abilities, but respecting Mike was...well, he was different when it came to anything other than the work -- uncouth and uncultured, smart but a smartass, not the most interpersonally talented. He overshared, went off on wild tangents --

And he'd _saved Harvey's life._

It had taken courage and resourcefulness, qualities that Harvey had abstractly known Mike must possess but had never seen much evidence of before now. His needs had been simple: surveillance, sometimes financial dirt, nothing very complicated. Mike liked that. He'd even said as much, that Harvey was one of his easier clients, low-maintenance, always paid on time.

Harvey shut the water off and tried not to think about anything much as he dried himself and dressed, using the mirror to study the bruising already beginning to show on his forearms. He slicked his hair back with his fingers, walking back down the stairs, into the living room.

Mike, seated on his couch and eating from a bowl of cold cereal, looked up. His eyes bulged.

"What, you've never seen a guy in a t-shirt before?" Harvey asked, pausing.

"Not you," Mike answered honestly. "I figured you lived in suits."

"Well, you figured wrong," Harvey said, crossing to sit on the couch next to him. Mike offered him a bowl, then the carton of milk that was sitting on his coffee table. He looked comfortable -- barefoot and crosslegged, his jacket and tie off, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. His holster was slung carelessly on one of Harvey's very expensive lamps, and the gun sat next to the milk on the table. He scooted around to face Harvey, leaning back against the arm of the couch. With the glass covered by wooden blinds, the room felt enclosed -- intimate rather than claustrophobic. Safe.

"So, this was a day," Harvey said, as he poured the milk over his cereal.

"I notice you haven't mentioned calling the police," Mike remarked.

"You seemed to have the situation under control," Harvey said.

"Yeah, I figured when you didn't mention them right after, you probably wouldn't want to call them."

Harvey shrugged. "I trust you more than I trust them."

Mike laughed.

"What?" Harvey asked.

"Nothing, I was just thinking. Harvey _Fuck Tha Police_ Specter." Mike took another bite. "We could call the feds. I don't like them, but they have specialized people to deal with organized crime."

"Can they do anything about this?"

"Probably not. You haven't witnessed a crime. Not one you could pin on Boccacho, anyway, and I'm not going into Witness Protection for some thug he hired to off you."

"Did you get a good look at them?"

"I saw enough," Mike said. "So did they, unfortunately."

"So you have ulterior motives for wanting to stay somewhere with a doorman and some solid locks," Harvey surmised.

"How do you know I don't live in a penthouse?"

Harvey gave Mike a sardonic look. "You think I didn't do my due diligence on you?"

"You had me followed? When? He must have been good."

" _She_ is."

"Ah. Vanessa or Sal?"

"Vanessa. She's my source when you're mysteriously out of town."

"It's not mysterious. It's just private," Mike said, mouth full. "So you know where I live."

"And you have my building's phone number memorized," Harvey said.

"Touche, but I can't help that," Mike replied. At Harvey's frown, he tapped the handle of his spoon against his temple. "Eidetic. I read it, it's locked in there forever."

"That's incredibly rare."

Mike reeled off a list of numbers. Harvey squinted at him.

"That's your credit card," Mike said. "I saw it when you paid for our drinks. Runs in the family. Comes in handy, in my line of work."

"Why do you do it? This?" Harvey asked. "Did you choose this job?"

Mike shrugged. "The job chose me."

He lifted the cereal bowl to his lips, drinking the last of the milk straight from the rim, and then set it down on the table. "Mind if I hit up your shower? I still have brick dust in my hair."

Harvey nodded, and Mike unfolded from the couch, bounding up the stairs, leaving him in the living room, with his food and the milk and the gun.

Back when Harvey had been a prosecutor for the DA's office, Cameron Dennis had sometimes carried a gun; he knew other prosecutors did too, and often criminal defense lawyers who'd lost cases. It was a dangerous business. He'd been efficient and successful, but too low in the pecking order ever to need one himself.

The goal had always been to return to Pearson Hardman and pay Jessica back for the help she'd given him, but he couldn't deny that under Cameron he'd dreamed of bringing down someone like Boccacho. He'd never factored murder attempts into his fantasies. Or anyone like Mike, though he'd known enough police detectives in his day.

He carried the bowls to the kitchen, put the milk away, and poured himself another drink, settling back on the couch.

Mike was certainly unexpected, not the kind of person one could imagine out of thin air. Harvey wondered if he fell into the lives of other people the way he'd fallen into Harvey's -- because as much as Harvey might have needed a person like Mike, he hadn't been looking for him when he'd found him.

 

When Mike came down from the bedroom -- refreshed, and not having bothered to put his shirt back on, comfortable in his pants and undershirt -- he found Harvey on the couch still. Or perhaps again: the cereal bowls were gone, and Harvey had a drink and a contemplative expression on his face.

"You look like you're plotting something," Mike remarked, settling on the floor on the other side of the coffee table and pulling his messenger bag over to him. He began unpacking it, going through his nightly inventory, making sure he hadn't lost or broken anything during the day. Ammunition, amplifier, antenna...

"Reminiscing, actually," Harvey said, watching him work. Bugs (assorted), camera, cleaning kit, jammer.

"About what?" Mike asked, intrigued. Knife, lockpicks.

"The time you crashed my interviews," Harvey replied.

"Harvey," Mike groaned. "We agreed never to talk about that."

"You decided we should never talk about that. I made no such agreement."

Microphone, motion sensors, night-vision filter, pencil. Mike fiddled with the filter, checking the lens to make sure it wasn't scratched.

"Why were you running, again?" Harvey asked, though he knew full well Mike had been running from hotel security, who'd caught him snooping in the room of a woman whose husband suspected her of cheating.

"I'm not answering that," Mike said, taking out his telephoto lens.

"That's right, because you had a briefcase full of men's underwear and all your spy gear in it," Harvey said. Mike, just to be perverse, snapped a picture of Harvey with the camera, flash set on high.

"They were evidence for a client," he said.

"Undies all over the floor."

"I needed them for a DNA test. Client wanted to make sure his kid was his."

"Slimeball," Harvey pronounced.

"Yeah, well, at the time it paid the bills."

"Was the kid his?"

"That's privileged information," Mike said loftily.

USB stick, wireless video transmitter, zipties. Everything accounted for. He picked up the gun, gave it a once-over to make sure it didn't need cleaning yet, and checked the clip. He saw Harvey watching him warily.

"You know how to shoot?" Mike asked.

"I learned how," Harvey said. "It's been a while."

Mike held the gun between them, barrel pointed to the side, grips tilted towards him. "It's a Jericho 941 nine mil. Safety's here, take it off like this," he said, flicking the safety off and then quickly back on again with his thumb. "Aim for the body."

"You act like I'm going to be firing it."

"Well, you never know. You afraid of guns?"

"Excuse me?" Harvey looked insulted. Mike offered it to him.

He took it cautiously but confidently, testing its weight, running his thumb over the safety without deactivating it. He kept the barrel down and away from both of them, fingers well clear of the trigger.

"Bang bang," Mike said, holding out his hand. Harvey placed it in his palm and he got up to put it in the holster, slinging it over his shoulders. "Hopefully neither of us has to use it."

"Bang bang," Harvey agreed. "Where did you learn to handle guns?"

Mike grinned. "My grandma taught me."

Harvey raised an eyebrow.

"She raised me. When I got to be sixteen, Gram said I should know how to handle one. She learned from her dad."

"Then it's in the blood."

"I like to think it's an inheritance," Mike answered. "So, what does a big-shot lawyer do to entertain himself in the evenings? Got a deck of cards?"

They spent the evening playing cards, which was enjoyable enough. Harvey had a great bluff and no tells, and he was an expert at reading cues Mike didn't even know he was giving. It was a pleasure to play with someone who _got it_ , who enjoyed the game on multiple levels and didn't feel guilty about it.

Mike carefully didn't push him about the next morning's meeting, until it was starting to get late and they both should sleep if they wanted to be on tomorrow.

"So have you made up your mind?" Mike asked, shuffling the deck absently. "Fold, stay, or bet high?"

Harvey sat back, the fingers of his right hand rubbing his abraded left palm. "If I bet high, are you in?"

"Sure," Mike said. "But if I'm in, you have to listen to me. No more sneaking past Donna or blithely assuring me Boccacho's not after you."

Harvey shook his head. Mike could see, in the tension of his shoulders, that the evening's attack had genuinely scared him.

"Okay. Then I suggest you tell Drew that you're meeting here, instead of your office. You need to be honest with him that what he's doing is dangerous, so that his guys know to be on alert. And you need to have some kind of plan to checkmate Boccacho. You can't just stand around until this goes to court, waiting for him to hit you. He only has to get lucky once. You have to be lucky all the time."

"That's where you come in," Harvey said. Mike set the cards down and sat back, propping himself on his hands.

"How's that?"

"Tomorrow, I want you full-time on Boccacho. If I'm here, there's reasonable expectation that I'm safe, right?"

Mike nodded.

"So if I stay here, you don't have to. You said you're not done with Johnny Three-Guns; prove it. Bring me something I can use to get him off my back. If it gets him off Drew's land, even better."

"You think Peterson could be convinced?" Mike asked. "If he testifies to what's in the warehouse, the police can search and seize. Then it's just a matter of making your case to the cops, right? Boccacho's behind bars, Peterson's the one drawing his fire, and you get Drew's land back. After that, he's Drew's problem."

"You're a ruthless little pup, aren't you?" Harvey asked. "Putting Peterson and Drew up in front of me."

"Drew's pushing the case. Peterson works for the mob. I know you're a lawyer, but comparatively, your hands are clean." Mike caught Harvey's amused look and shrugged. "So, Peterson? If I put the cops on his tail, think he'd flip?"

"Ten years ago I'd have said yes. Now...I think so, but I can't be sure. Keep it in reserve. See what else you can find out tomorrow," Harvey said. "Don't evaluate, just bring it all back to me."

"Fine by me. You should have someone here at night anyway," Mike said, standing and stretching. "I'm going to get some shuteye. Don't worry, I'm a light sleeper," he added. "If you hear anything suspicious, don't be a hero. Yell out. Even if it's a false alarm."

"Being the hero's your job?"

Mike bounced a little on his toes. "Yep."

Harvey picked up his phone. "I'll let Donna know to move Drew's meeting to my place. There are some blankets in the closet," he added, nodding at a coat closet near the entryway. Mike rummaged around between expensive coats and a couple of pairs of snow boots worth probably more than the rent on his apartment, and finally came up with a couple of thick, luxurious wool blankets. He carried them to the couch and ducked, laughing, as a pillow came sailing down the stairs.

"You're a king of hospitality!" he called up.

"Rule one: keep the man with the gun happy," Harvey called back. "Goodnight, Mike."

"Goodnight," Mike said, arranging the blankets to his satisfaction. He took the holster off but removed the gun and tucked it under the sofa cushion. Satisfied, he did a check of the locks on the front door, hooked his microphone up to the amp so that any footsteps in the hallway would wake him immediately, and curled up on the couch. He could hear Harvey quietly moving around upstairs, preparing for bed.

It was a good feeling, being responsible for someone else's safety. Stressful, but satisfying. It was one of the parts Mike liked best about his job. These days he could afford to turn down jobs he thought were shady, picking people who really needed his help, people who needed someone to look after them, someone to care. Clients like Harvey, who paid well and frequently, made it possible for him to do little jobs on the cheap for women with deadbeat ex-husbands, families trying to find runaway kids, retirees who'd been conned and wanted their money back. True, most of what he did was catch cheating spouses, but on the balance Mike felt he was doing more good than harm in the world.

And now Harvey -- prickly, smart, sarcastic Harvey, who made Mike want to break his "don't sleep with clients" rule -- needed him.

Mike heaved a soft, contented sigh, and slipped into a light and cautious sleep.

 

In the morning, Mike wouldn't leave until Drew arrived. Harvey was a little concerned about how Howard Hughes it all looked, the bodyguard and the wood slats over his glass walls, but Drew was instantly drawn to them, impressed and intrigued by the high telescoping protective barriers. Mike slipped out discreetly while Harvey was showing him the recessed retraction mechanisms built into the adjoining walls.

The meeting with Drew went about as expected, involving a combination of bravado and paranoia that Harvey felt Mike would have appreciated, had he not been out investigating Boccacho. Drew wanted to move forward and damn the consequences. Harvey decided to read his lack of concern over Harvey's personal danger as confidence in his abilities rather than, as he suspected, the narcissistic machismo it actually was. They parted after an hour and a half, with Boccacho's rejected offer in Drew's pocket, and hopefully some of his ire following Drew instead of Harvey.

He spent the rest of the day pacing, trying to distract himself, and contemplating the comparative security risks of ordering in food just to have another human being to talk to face to face.

And cooking, because there was nothing better to do and it kept his hands busy.

Mike texted every hour or so, just a status check to make sure Harvey was still conscious or maybe to see if he'd gone out of his mind yet. Harvey was sure, either way, Mike would enjoy himself.

He finally called up around six to warn Harvey he was done for the day and coming back; about thirty seconds later the doorman called to ask if Harvey wanted to allow him up.

"Honey, I'm ho -- holy God, what smells so good?" Mike asked, breaking off in the middle of his sarcastic sentiment to drop into real amazement. Harvey turned and saw a vaguely Mike-shaped drowned rat standing in his foyer. He had his messenger bag in one hand, a duffel in the other, and hair wetly matted to his skull.

"What happened to you?" Harvey asked, staring at him. Mike jerked his thumb at the shuttered windows.

"Rain," he said. "I'm on a bike, it got damp."

"You couldn't call a cab?"

"Believe it or not, it's easier to keep a low profile on a bike," Mike replied, setting his duffelbag down. "Not to be demanding or anything, but a towel wouldn't go amiss before I drip any more on your floor."

Harvey tossed him a tea towel. Mike rolled his eyes, but he used it to dry his face and hair while Harvey found him something more appropriate.

"Where's your gun?" Harvey asked, returning with a full-sized towel.

"It's in the bag. Wanted it to stay dry, didn't need it on a bike in the rain," Mike replied. He shrugged off his soaking wet jacket, which landed on the kitchen counter with a wet squelch, then began stripping out of the rest of his clothes, drying himself as he went.

"Do you always undress in front of your clients?" Harvey asked mildly, stirring a pot bubbling on the stove.

"I like to contain any disaster zone I cause," Mike replied, hanging his shoes on the knobs of the kitchen drawers and setting his socks delicately on top of his wet jacket. "What smells so good?"

"Gumbo," Harvey replied.

"You thought you'd just whip up a batch?" Mike asked, pulling off his damp undershirt and unbuckling his belt. Under the suit he was surprisingly wiry, muscles sharp and well-defined, hipbones sharp under his skin.

"Pretty much. It was something to do," Harvey replied, turning back to the gumbo to hide his ogling. "You find anything?"

"Not yet, but I'm getting closer. Sometimes these things take time." Mike hung the belt around his bare neck and shed his pants, bundling them up with the rest of his sodden clothes. "You got a dryer?"

Harvey stared at him. (His boxers had ducks on them.)

"What?" Mike asked.

"Hang them up in the bathroom," Harvey said. "Who taught you to wear a suit?"

"Same woman who taught me to fire a gun," Mike replied. "She had less personal experience with suits, admittedly. Granddad was a uniform guy."

"Let them drip-dry. You bring a change of clothes?"

Mike kicked the duffelbag. "Waterproof. Back in a few."

Harvey tossed the tea-towel onto the counter, wiping it dry, and decided not to think too much about Mike Ross naked in his kitchen.

By the time Mike came back, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt under his holster, Harvey had two plates out, each covered with a mound of golden, red-flecked rice topped by a messy heap of gumbo. Mike looked faintly awed.

"This is amazing," he said, not bothering to move from the kitchen counter as he stuffed his face. "Holy shit, Harvey. I didn't think people with your kind of paycheck cooked."

"You're just hungry," Harvey replied, but he bestowed a pleased smile on Mike anyway.

"So how did the meet go?" Mike asked, following as Harvey led the way into the dining room. He didn't eat there much, but they cleaned it each week anyway; the long dinner table gleamed, and Harvey flicked the chandelier on. "This place goes on forever. Did you know apparently New Yorkers have frequent dreams about discovering new doors in their apartments that lead to whole other rooms they didn't know they had? When I was a kid I had dreams like that, we had this little tiny place in Brooklyn, but when I opened the doors they led to other places completely..."

Harvey ignored the fact that Mike hadn't bothered to wait for an answer to his question, and let him rattle on for a while, until he'd poured a glass of wine for himself and Mike held out a hand, stopping him.

"Water," he said. "I'm still on duty. Jesus, sorry, why'd you let me talk like that? Tell me about the meet."

Harvey sipped his wine, waiting for Mike to return with a glass of water before he spoke. "It went about how you'd think. We're going forward. I talked to my boss, she's reassigning some of my more boring stuff until this is taken care of. Donna cleared my schedule, so I have a few days to hide out before we make preliminary arguments in front of a judge."

"Hopefully I can speed that up," Mike said. "I'm going down to the warehouse tomorrow, see what I can find out."

"Is that smart?"

"Probably not, but I'm sneaky. The docks are riddled with old Prohibition tunnels, I'm going to knock around in a few neighboring buildings and see what I can find," Mike said, slowing down a little on his determined plow through the heap of food on his plate. His hair stuck up in damp tufts, and the shirt clung a little to the muscles underneath.

"What do you expect to find?" Harvey asked.

Mike set his fork down and ticked his options off on his fingers. "It's on the water, so the most likely option is straight-up smuggling -- probably cocaine, possibly heroin, both of which look pretty much like big generic bundles, so if that's the case he'll probably have forklifts running. But there's a startlingly large market for illegally imported food and exotic animals, in which case it's more likely there will be a lot of shelving. There's always the off-chance he's into human trafficking, but if he's bringing people into New York they're more likely undocumented immigrants. Usually with living things like animals or humans there are certain...smells. Possibly it's a stash, money or goods; I'll be looking for large safe doors, in that case. I don't think he'd be paying this hard for a meth lab unless it's a really good meth lab -- again, that's a smell thing. I don't think it's likely he's using it as a grow room, but there'll be a lot of heat from the lamps if he is. Actually, he might be. The cost of pot in New York is totally ridiculous right now, so if he can underprice because he's not importing it, or if he can sell at the same price with cheaper manufacture, it's not out of the question -- " he broke off when he saw Harvey's expression. "Look, I don't smoke myself, I just have friends..."

"That wasn't what concerned me," Harvey said, pushing a piece of andouille sausage around on his plate. "Your encyclopedic knowledge of what a warehouse on the docks could be used for is a little worrying."

"I bet you know the statute of limitations on every white collar crime in New York state," Mike replied.

"Okay, I get it. It's your job," Harvey said. "Do you do much criminal work?"

"Not a lot, but sometimes. Usually I stumble over stuff on other jobs, tip off the cops. Sometimes there's reward money involved," Mike added. "Nice little bonus. Why, do you?"

Harvey shook his head. "Mostly corporate law. Mergers, intellectual property suits, contracts. Once in a while I have to get some client or their kid off the hook for drunk and disorderly or shoplifting or something."

"Shoplifting?"

"You'd be amazed," Harvey said. "Millionaires do it all the time. It's like it's the only thrill left."

Mike grinned. "You know better, huh?"

"I understand the theory. I like to win. Stealing feels like beating the system. Better to win using the system, I think," Harvey answered. "More of a challenge, anyway."

Mike made a thoughtful noise around a mouthful of rice.

"What?" Harvey asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Beating the system has its charms," Mike shrugged. "It's what I do."

"You don't have wealth on your side."

"You do, and you're still stuck..." Mike waved his fork around, indicating the wooden shutters, the danger, the gun under his arm. "Sometimes the system fails, even when you have all the money in the world. Which is when you hire guys like me," he added, neatly tying up his argument. Harvey knew professionally trained lawyers who couldn't have done as well.

"Why aren't you a lawyer?" Harvey asked abruptly.

Mike shrugged. "I thought about it, in high school. I went to college prelaw. Long story short, I never graduated, and after self-destructing for a year I decided I was dishonoring my ancestors, and got my life back together."

"Dishonoring your ancestors?" Harvey asked, skeptical.

"My great-grandfather was a Pinkerton. Granddad was a beat cop, dad was an NYPD detective. Can't have them looking down on me from upstairs and seeing me do any less than my best," Mike said. "I like the work, so it all worked out. Wouldn't mind more money, but you can't have everything. Unless you're you," he added, grinning. "I couldn't work in an office all day. It's not my style."

The conversation drifted, but Harvey found his thoughts circling around to the curve of Mike's biceps under his shirt, the quirk of his mouth when he won their debate, the old healed-over pain in his eyes when he talked about his father.

"Okay," Mike said finally, scooping up the last bite of rice, "this is officially the most amazing food I've had in years."

"You don't eat actual meals a lot, do you?" Harvey asked. Mike gave him a sheepish look. "Coffee?"

"Yeah, or else I'm going to go into a gumbo coma," Mike agreed, gathering up both plates and following him into the kitchen. It was an oddly domestic moment, and Harvey did his best to ignore that, programming the coffee machine instead. "You need me to go on a supply run tonight? Low on amazing gourmet food or anything?"

"I'll come with you," Harvey said.

"I like at least three doors between you and the world," Mike said. "This is for your own protection, Harvey," he added, when Harvey opened his mouth to object. "Look, I'll bring back a DVD or something."

"Are you seriously bribing me with treats?" Harvey asked.

"Is that going to work?"

Harvey leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms. "I feel like we're over-reacting."

"Do you not remember almost being shot?" Mike looked agitated. "Look, I know it sucks and it's boring and you feel like a coward, I get that, okay? But this isn't my first bodyguard gig and if you want to stay safe you need to stay here."

Harvey frowned at him, narrowing his eyes. Mike stood his ground.

"There's a diner around the corner, next to the bodega," Harvey said finally, taking his wallet out of his pocket and digging out a twenty. "Milk and bread from the bodega, slice of dutch apple from the diner, and whatever you want."

Mike took the twenty, gave him a grin, and went to put on his shoes.

 

Mike knew, because he'd often had strange needs at strange hours, that you could get anything in Manhattan at any time. The bodega Harvey had mentioned was a case in point; a block away from Harvey's luxury high-rise, it sold fruit, assorted groceries, liquor, cigarettes, condoms, burner phones, bangly bracelets, t-shirts, and postcards. He picked up some milk and the fanciest bread they had, plus a box of cereal suited to his taste (less fiber, more marshmallows). He could smell the frying oil and the grill from the diner next door.

They had a whole case full of pies, like something out of a film from the fifties, and Mike had a very noir moment as he, holster under his jacket, bodyguarding a rich lawyer, picked up two slices of dutch apple pie from a waitress who called him Babyface. He came back the same way he'd left the high-rise, through the access tunnel from the next building over, and was just juggling the pie and groceries into one hand so he could unlock the door with the other when he noticed it was open. There was a crash from inside.

Mike dropped the pie, milk, bread and cereal, barrelling through the door with his gun already in his hand, thumb flicking the safety off. The crash had come from the left -- the kitchen, the dining room maybe, and Mike heard a yelp of pain, grunts as if from a struggle. He cornered into the kitchen with the gun ahead of him.

Harvey was locked body-to-body with a burly dark-haired man in black, struggling to get free. There was a gun on the floor in the corner and both men had bloody lips. Near the doorway was a dented pan that had apparently fallen from the wall. A broken plate was shattered on the floor behind Harvey, and the gumbo and rice pots were both overturned, making the floor slick and greasy.

All this passed through his mind in the half-second he took to evaluate, and then he was moving -- shouldering hard into the man who had his arms around Harvey's body, turning as they fell together so that he'd land on top. The man kicked and swore, but Mike butted his head into the kitchen tile (that would leave a bruise) and tried to bring the gun up into the man's eyesight. The floor was slick, though, and the other man managed to roll them, sprinting off Mike and stumbling, but not falling, when Mike's legs kicked out to trip him.

Harvey had taken a hard knock against the fridge when Mike burst in, and was scrambling dazedly to get up even as the other man pushed him down, shoved past him to try and recover the gun in the corner. Mike raised his own and fired; it hit the man with a meaty thunk, passed through his shoulder, and didn't slow him down a damn bit. Mike fired again, hit the kitchen counter instead of his target, and scrambled up covered in sauce, just in time to fire through the doorway as the man bolted.

He followed him into the front hall, ducked back as a bullet zinged past (it hit Harvey's sofa; Harvey was going to have fits) and bolted after the attacker into the emergency stairwell next to the elevator bank outside.

The other man was running, slipping and jumping down the stairs, hands leaving slick smears of blood and grease on the rail. He fired up and Mike ducked his head back, continuing the chase; another flight and the man stumbled, fell, and Mike tried to fire but the angle was off. Then they were both running again, like some kind of terrible farce, fucking gunfighting in a god damned stairwell.

Whoever he was chasing had clearly been prepared -- they passed forty, thirty, twenty, ten, and on the ground floor he turned and fired two last rounds, showering Mike with fragments of cement. Mike ducked; the man ran through the hallway and out the door to the operations shop, the loading dock.

Mike stopped as the door swung shut. He'd have backup out there, and Mike was too smart to run into a firefight where he was packing only a clip and a quarter left and there was more than one opponent.

He backed away from the swinging door, elbowed his way into the lobby opposite, and scanned it quickly before holstering his gun. The doorman looked at him, startled.

"Has anyone other than me been through here in the last ten minutes?" Mike asked. The doorman shook his head. "Shit."

"Sir?" the doorman asked. Mike heard something fall to the floor with a splat. He looked down; his sleeve was soaked in gumbo, caked with rice, and he was dripping peppers and chopped shrimp on the floor of the lobby.

"Dinner party gone wrong," he panted.

"Happens to the best of us," the doorman said gravely. "I'll call custodial to clean it up."

"Thanks." Mike pushed the elevator call button without looking, edged into the nearest open door, and hit the button for Harvey's floor.

"Harvey!" he yelled from the hallway, when he saw the door was still open. "It's Mike, I'm coming in."

Harvey appeared in the doorway, an enormous kitchen knife held casually in one hand. "Lose him in the street?" he asked, thickly.

"Didn't follow him out, he'd have had pals," Mike said. They stood there on either side of the doorway: Harvey bleeding from his lip and nose, hair disarrayed, holding the knife, and Mike coated in the leftovers from dinner, dusted lightly with powdered cement and still breathing heavily.

"I brought pie," Mike said, gesturing at the bags in the hallway -- the cereal tipped over on its side, milk beading with condensation, the container with the pie slices in it gently steaming.

Harvey lurched forward into Mike's arms, dropping the knife (thank God). Mike buried his face in Harvey's shoulder, taking a second of comfort from the arms around his chest, but still part of him knew that a) this was just a stress reaction and b) they should really get the hell into the condo.

"Harvey, we gotta get inside, they could be coming back," he said. "Also, I'm covered in food, you'll get it on your shirt."

He disengaged carefully and gathered up the bags, passing the knife up to Harvey by the handle. Inside, he beelined for his bag, took out a couple of bugs, and hooked a small antenna stashed with them into his phone. Harvey watched silently as Mike set bugs on the floor up against the wall, between the elevators.

"Makeshift alarm system," Mike explained, hooking the wireless bugs up to his phone. "Anyone gets off on this floor, the phone will scream. Should give me time to draw on them. In here," he added, closing and locking the door -- the handle was broken, spinning freely in its casing, but the bolt was solid. Either they'd slid it back or Harvey hadn't bolted it after him.

 _Sloppy, Mike._

There was a small bullet-hole pockmark in the plaster of Harvey's hallway, but Mike ignored that for now; he brought Harvey into the kitchen with him, sat him down at the counter far from the mess of food and broken flatware, and wetted a towel in the sink.

"Does anywhere hurt other than your face?" he asked, dabbing at Harvey's bloody lip. "He get any good punches in?"

"No," Harvey said. "My shoulder's complaining."

"Left or right?"

"Right," Harvey said, testing his arm gingerly. "I think it's just bruised. I blew it out in high school, it bruises if you look at it wrong."

"Did he fire at all before I got here?"

Harvey shook his head. Mike swiped drying blood off his throat, his other hand checking Harvey's head for cuts or bumps. Harvey winced when he prodded the place where he'd done a header into the fridge, but it didn't seem bad enough for a concussion.

"You?" Harvey asked, as Mike tossed the towel on the counter.

"Missed me, but I think your couch is a goner," Mike said. "Also, I shot your kitchen, sorry about that."

Harvey smiled, then grimaced, touching his lip. "It had it coming."

Mike shrugged out of his greasy shirt, used a clean corner to ruffle some rice out of his hair, and tossed it next to the towel on the counter. He picked up the only-slightly-battered box of pie and put it in Harvey's hands, setting a plastic fork on top.

"Eat and tell me what happened," he said, picking up the towel and using it to scoop the broken shards of the plate into the trash, pushing the gumbo and rice into a little heap.

"I heard the door," Harvey began, picking at the pie. "I knew it was too early for you to get back, so I stayed out of the way."

"Smart. I think he was on the loading dock -- he'd have seen me leaving, guess he thought it was his chance. How'd you get the gun off him?"

Harvey grinned. "Smacked the shit out of his hand with an aluminum skillet."

Mike gave him a somber look as he picked up the pan lying near the doorway. "Cast iron's better."

Harvey chuckled around a mouthful of pie. "I saw the gun coming, hit him with the pan, kicked the gun aside. He jumped me."

"You were holding your own pretty well," Mike said.

"Boxing lessons as a kid," Harvey said. "You had some moves yourself."

"I do all right," Mike agreed. "Thank you for staying here while I went after him."

"Seemed smart," Harvey shrugged.

"It was." Mike dumped the last of the gumbo into the trash can and leaned against the counter next to Harvey, taking the other fork out of the bag and digging in.

"We're both in shock right now," Harvey observed.

"Yep," Mike said cheerfully. "Eat up, enjoy it while it lasts."

They were just finishing when Mike felt cold sweep over him, the aftershock of the fight; he looked at Harvey, who had both his hands on his thighs, tense and visibly shaking. Mike set the container aside and jerked his head at the doorway.

"Upstairs," he said, leading Harvey up to the bedroom and settling him firmly on the edge, pouring him a glass of scotch from the bar in the corner. "Stay there."

He ducked into Harvey's closet, one of the more amazing closets he'd seen in his time as a PI, and found a clean shirt, shrugging into it.

"I go through more clothes around you," Mike said as he emerged, rolling up the sleeves. "A gunfight covered in gumbo is a new one for me, I have to say."

"You made it work," Harvey told him, and Mike cracked up laughing, coming to sit next to him on the bed.

"I shouldn't have left you alone at all today, especially at night," he said, after a while. "I think we should revisit the idea of calling the police, because I can't be here protecting you and out there trying to find a way to get Boccacho to leave you alone."

"You think they'll try again?"

"I think they almost succeeded. Odds are good," Mike replied.

"But that's not really the problem, is it?"

Mike shook his head. "Here's the problem. I need to achieve two things: protecting you, and researching Boccacho. I can only do one of those at a time. So the question is, which task do I trust someone else with enough that I'd let them do it?" He glanced at Harvey. "Rationally, I know what I'm looking for at the warehouse and nobody else does, so I should leave someone else here with you so I can go find it. Besides, it's not like I've done a great job protecting you so far. But if someone else let one of Boccacho's guys get past them, I'd hate myself."

"If I'm going to die it had better be on your watch?" Harvey asked. Mike laughed.

He was laughing, and so he wasn't ready when Harvey swayed forward and kissed him. It put them both off-balance, Mike almost tumbling sideways, and his teeth grazed the cut on Harvey's lip. Harvey, apparently ready to ignore the pain, caught Mike's head with one hand and pulled them both upright again, still kissing him.

"Harvey," Mike mumbled against his mouth, muffled. He ducked away, out from under Harvey's hand. "Stop, wait," he said, aware he was breathing heavy. Harvey just watched him, dark eyes scanning his face. Mike wiped a drop of blood off Harvey's lip with his thumb.

"Okay," he said slowly, taking a breath. "Listen to me. I would like nothing more than to get back to that. But we're both still coming out of shock and it's a bad idea."

"I don't have bad ideas," Harvey said. "It's a great idea."

"Uh-huh, you think that now," Mike said. "But even if I slept with clients, which I don't, and even if I made an exception which, believe me, I _really want to_ , I have to be on guard tonight, Harvey. I can't be distracted."

Harvey considered it, then nodded slightly, jerkily.

"So what we're gonna do is go downstairs, you're going to sit down and work through the adrenaline crash, and I'm going to clean and reload," Mike said. He stood up, confident Harvey would follow; at the bottom of the stairs he took his cleaning kit out of his bag and settled in on the couch, conscious of the bullet hole in the cushion behind him, and started disassembling the Jericho.

He worked quickly, because he didn't like not having a functioning gun in a situation like this; he talked as he stripped it, keeping his voice carefully even.

"It makes sense, you know," he told Harvey, who was watching his hands on the gun. "You feel safe around me, and most people don't really ever feel very safe, on a weird, unconscious level. But that's one reason for the rule -- I mean, don't think you're the first," he added, opening the cleaning kit. "The thing is, you're still my client."

"Not forever," Harvey pointed out.

"Not on this job," Mike agreed. "But unless you're planning never to hire me again...which would be a mistake, because I'm the best, and also frankly I need the income you provide..."

"I get it," Harvey said, sounding mildly annoyed. "You don't have to let me down easy."

"There's no letting down about it. This is a reasoned statement," Mike replied. "You're the one who's always talking about winning, not caring. In this situation, winning means keeping you alive, and that means...not caring," he said. He glanced up at Harvey, his hands still busy with the gun. "That doesn't mean I don't want to. It just means I can't. But," he added, sliding the full clip into the grip and holstering it, reloading the spare clip and tucking it into the other side of the holster, "we're both smart guys and I think I could break a rule for you. So in the language of your people, Harvey, let's revisit this negotiation once the preliminaries have been dealt with."

Harvey leaned forward, tipped Mike's chin around -- Mike allowed it, because he was only human, after all -- and kissed him again.

"I'll put it on my calendar," he said.

 

Mike made a few calls that evening, while Harvey nursed his wounded ego.

He was unused to being rejected, even for sensible reasons, and Mike's assurances notwithstanding he felt a little raw. Part of it probably had to do with the gunman in his home, but Harvey put that aside. He was good at compartmentalizing, and he suspected the whole home-invasion thing would need time to marinate before he was ready to deal with it.

"I called around," Mike said, coming back into the living room. "A couple of my regular surveillance guys are available. I know it sounds like I'm hiring a babysitter or something -- "

"I'm not arguing," Harvey said.

"Good. In that case, a giant off-duty cop named Paul will be your guest for the day tomorrow," Mike said. "I'll be checking in. And you should sleep -- it's been a long day. I'm going to, tomorrow's going to be intense."

"I'm not sold on the warehouse," Harvey said.

"Well, I've run out of other avenues, and I'm not sending Paul to do my job," Mike said. "This _is_ my job."

"Nobody's saying it isn't," Harvey replied.

"Nobody anymore," Mike muttered. Harvey cocked his head. Mike sighed. "The last client I got involved with liked my job just fine until she was dating me."

"Don't mistake my interest in your welfare for interference in your life," Harvey said. "I let you chase a gun-waving killer out of my condo an hour ago, so I'm on board with you doing your job."

"Good," Mike replied. "Now go to bed, and in the morning your babysitter will be here to play games with you."

Harvey rolled his eyes, but he climbed the stairs to the bedroom without protest. Below, he could hear Mike checking the locks, tsking over the broken doorknob, and setting up whatever alarms Mike felt necessary to ensure if someone did try again, he'd hear them coming.

He lay in bed for a while, shifting through emotions -- dissatisfaction over Mike's entirely logical argument, fear for his life, triumph that he'd fought well mingling with lightheaded surreality that he'd had to. Lingering arousal from the kiss, and a vague concern that it was really only what Mike had said: that he felt safe, and that created false affection he wouldn't feel in the brighter light of day. He slept fitfully, his dreams filled with weird shadows and elevators he couldn't get to go to the right floor.

He woke early to the sound of Mike moving around downstairs. When he leaned over the railing, Mike looked up and gave him a grin.

"Psychologists say that people who are housebound should stick to a routine," he called up. "Go get a shower. Paul should be here soon."

"I think I hired you to be my bodyguard, not my boss," Harvey replied, but it wasn't a bad idea. He felt stiff from the fight the previous day, and he probably smelled like gumbo.

A glance in the mirror after he'd washed showed a mottled purple bruise spreading out from his nose across his cheek. Harvey shaved carefully, wincing a few times, and by the time he got downstairs he could hear voices in the kitchen.

Paul -- Mike gave him no last name, and Harvey didn't ask -- had earned Mike's description of 'giant'. He towered over both of them, smiling benignly into his coffee cup, and he was built like a solid wall of muscle. He shook firmly, remarking that Harvey had a nice place.

"I like it," Harvey agreed. "How do you know Mike?"

"Our dads were on the force together," Paul said. "They've tightened the height requirements since then."

"Hahahahaha," Mike muttered, buttering some toast. He turned to Harvey and offered him a triangle of it.

"It's funny, because you're not that short," Harvey informed Mike.

"Paul is me today," Mike said, ignoring him. "Do what he says and don't give him any crap."

"I give you crap all the time," Harvey pointed out. Paul smirked.

"You want to flirt with danger, be my guest, but he's bigger than you," Mike replied. "Okay, I'm gone. If I don't check in on the hour, wait fifteen minutes and then freak out and call the police, okay?"

"You're the boss," Paul said amiably. "I'mma go sit in the living room and watch the door. Just pretend I'm not here," he added, as he left.

"I like him," Harvey said.

"Yeah, I suspected you two would hit it off," Mike replied, grinning.

 

The dock district was busy in the early morning, but a guy on a bike would still be conspicuous. Mike caught a cab to the very edge of it and began to walk, watch cap pulled low on his head and the collar of his cheap peacoat turned up, looking like any one of a hundred guys going on shift or coming off.

He lingered in doorways, exchanged greetings with guys on loading docks, snuck around big rigs and huddled up to steam vents occasionally. He circled, never moving in a direct line but always drawing a little closer to Boccacho's non-zoned, unofficial warehouse. Eventually he found a roost in a stairwell crossways from the building, sheltered from the wind and mostly blocked from view, two floors up from the bustle below.

Boccacho was sly. He'd built the warehouse but hadn't put much shine on it, so that it blended into the ill-kept buildings around it. Some of the windows were boarded over; others, Mike discovered when he fitted the telephoto lens to the camera, were tinted just enough that he couldn't get a decent look inside. It was squat and ugly, three stories tall with a flat roof and no external fire escapes. The metal gate on the loading dock was closed and locked securely, and nobody was going in or out.

After a mildly chilly hour spent taking useless pictures and scoping out the warehouses on either side of it, Mike watched with interest as a series of dark, expensive-looking sedans pulled up. He raised the camera and got plenty of footage: Boccacho, a couple of guys he assumed were stooges or bodyguards, Harvey's fellow Harvard alum Peterson, and a gorgeous woman in a severe pencil skirt who, to judge from the clipboard in one hand and the Blackberry in the other, was probably Boccacho's secretary.

They went in through the front door. Mike wondered if the other doors even worked.

The series of cars pulled around to some impromptu parking on one side of the building, and Mike watched the drivers get out, light cigarettes, joke with each other. The other side of the building, with the loading dock, seemed unguarded.

It took Mike another couple of hours to inch his way closer, to casually stroll into the warehouse next door and pick the lock into the basement, where he followed the wires from the electrical meter and found exactly what he expected: a locked door which, when opened, led into a tunnel. About ten feet in, the casing on the electrical wires had been removed and a complicated series of clamps and other wires had been professionally hooked up to them. Boccacho was tapping the city's power.

Another thirty feet down the tunnel and a second series of wires led off to the left -- he was tapping a _lot_ of the city's power.

Which led Mike to a single, unsurprising conclusion that was confirmed as the tunnel began to get uncomfortably warm the closer he drew to the warehouse.

He shed his coat and hat in the tunnel, stashing them and his backpack on a high ledge. He took his camera, a spare SD card, a voice recorder and a couple of bugs, and pressed onwards.

When he was about where he'd figure the foundation of the warehouse should start, he saw a sliver of light in the darkness, indicating a doorway straight ahead. He stopped at the door, listened intently for half an hour, and then eased it open.

Even knowing what he was likely to find, he was still bowled over by the light, the humid heat, and the sheer scale of what lay in front of him.

It was a grow room, like he'd expected, but on an industrial scale: row upon row of tall marijuana plants, laid out in thick side-by-side hedges with irrigation tubes running from one planter to the next. Mike took a moment to appreciate the irony: a few years ago he would have thought he'd struck the jackpot and he'd have harvested as much bud as he could carry, but now the jackpot was the photographs he could take.

He took the first two with his phone, geotagging them for evidence, and then took his camera out. He crept along the rows, snapping pictures of the plants, the complex and professional irrigation system, the lamps overhead. Eventually he reached a stairwell, and ducked back into the thick thatch of branches, crouched and listening for voices.

His phone buzzed silently in his pocket, the hour alarm to check in with Paul and Harvey. He tapped a quick "ok" and went back to listening.

He could hear the occasional set of footsteps passing the stairwell, but nothing more; if someone was up there, they weren't guarding the door. Mike timed the footsteps and found no pattern to them, so with a deep breath he slunk silently up the dark stairs, peering out through the open door at the top as soon as he could see anything worth seeing, snapping more photos. It was clearly the drying floor -- plants lay in neatly piled rows nearby, but most of what Mike could see was clothesline strung across the wide open space, hundreds more plants clipped to it upside-down to dry. The smell made his eyes water.

He had enough here to take to the police, to cause search and seizure, which was all they really needed. He had footage of Boccacho going into the warehouse, and footage of what was inside; better still, he had footage of Peterson, and he was pretty sure if they got the right narco detective, Peterson would flip on his boss to save his own ass. Most people would.

Still, if he could get a shot of Boccacho with an actual plant...

He changed out the SD card in his camera, tucking the half-full card into a hidden pocket sewn into the hem of his plain grey sweatshirt, and then retreated through the grow room to the tunnel. Just to be safe, he stashed his phone in the backpack and then returned to the stairs, climbing up to the top. It seemed like only a few guys were working on the drying floor, and they were easily eluded as Mike circled the wall, looking for --

There.

Boccacho's office, off to one side of the front door, with a huge glass wall facing the interior. Mike crouched down, got the edge of a plant in the photo, and snapped Boccacho standing at the wall with Peterson, talking, looking out on the drying floor.

He was just standing up, turning to hurry back to his secret entrance, when he came face to face with one of Boccacho's goons from outside.

"Hey," the man said, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Are you new or something?"

"Yeah," Mike said, letting his hand with the camera in it fall casually to his side. People often didn't notice the obvious if you pretended it wasn't there.

"Well, so? Get the fuck back to work," the man said. Mike went to shove his hands in his pockets, to get the camera out of view --

Too fast.

"Hey, no goddamn cameras in here," the man said. "Who do you think you are?"

"I was just -- " Mike pulled away, fidgeting back towards Boccacho's office, indicating him. "The boss -- "

"The boss says no cameras," the man replied, hand on a holster at his waist.

Mike turned and ran.

He heard a commotion behind him -- he heard what must be Boccacho shout "What the fuck?" and doors slamming, but he was arrowing straight for the front door, hurdling a heap of pot on his way there, brushing through half-dried plants as he crossed the rows. He jumped and tugged, and one of the lines crashed down; someone swore. He passed through another row, pulling it down as well, and the first bullet whined past him as he reached the door. The second buried itself in the door as he swung it open and ran outside.

Unfortunately, so did the men who were shooting at him.

The drivers nearby also noticed a man running out of the warehouse, being pursued by -- a quick glance over his shoulder -- Johnny Three-Guns himself and several of his associates. They joined the chase, with considerable ground on the others, and Mike began weaving, ducking, just the way grandma told him to, bullets throwing up asphalt and zipping way too close to comfort as he ran blindly. Around him, dock workers were ducking behind cars and into doorways, flattening themsleves on the ground.

Something hit him with a dull thwack, something hard and burning in his side; he kept running even as something wet oozed down his leg, something he recognized with a startle as blood.

He turned a corner, threw himself up on the raised ledge of a loading dock, and found hands there waiting for him, pulling him into a dark crevice behind the wall. He watched, panting, as men ran past, halted, looked around, split up to explore the alleys. The door of the dock slid down, slow and silent, and a burly man nearby quietly closed the ordinary door next to it.

"Jesus Christ, he's bleeding like fuck," someone said, as pain lanced up Mike's side through his chest, tightening his shoulders, making it hard to breathe. Stars danced across his vision even as the edges began to gray out.

"Motherfuckers," someone else said. "I knew sooner or later this'd happen. Call EMS, dumbass!"

"Harvey Specter," Mike burbled, feeling the cold of the cement dock floor creeping up through his shirt. "Call Harvey Specter -- "

"All right, kid, relax."

Mike didn't have a choice. Something pressed hard on the wound in his side. He screamed and, mercifully, passed out.


	3. Chapter 3

When the call came, it wasn't from EMS or the police; weirdly, it was from Donna.

"Harvey," she said, when he answered. "I have someone on the line insisting he talk to you."

"About what?" Harvey asked. "I can't do much while I'm stuck here."

"He says it's about a shooting," she replied. "I can transfer him through."

Harvey checked his watch. Two minutes past the hour; Mike should have checked in, but even Paul wasn't that nervous yet.

"Put him through," he said, and there was a buzz on the line. "This is Harvey Specter."

"Mr. Specter, this is George Redfield, Teamsters Local 237," the man said. In the background, Harvey could hear voices talking excitedly. "I was told to call you. Found your office number on Google. You know a guy about six foot, dark blond hair, blue eyes?"

Mike. Harvey stiffened. Paul, nearby, looked up from his book.

"Yes," he said. "You're at the docks?"

"Yeah, I'm foreman down here for the shipping department. Listen, he said to call you, he didn't have a phone on him. Guy's been shot," George Redfield, Teamsters Local 237, said bluntly. "EMS just took him away. Thought you oughta know. I got the right guy?"

"Yes," Harvey said, the feeling of unreality returning in full force. "I think you do. Did they say where they've taken him?"

"No, but closest hospital's Beth Israel, you know it?"

"I can get there. Was he hurt badly?"

Paul stood up, one hand on the holster at his side, the other reaching for his phone.

"Yeah," Redfield replied. "Had some guys chasing him. We pulled him out."

"Thank you," Harvey said, with a sort of shocked calm. "Thank you for calling."

He hung up and glanced at Paul, who was already on the phone.

"Reported shooting -- patient's been taken to Beth Israel," Paul said, covering the receiver with his mouth. "He's listed as a John Doe right now. I can put uniforms on him."

Harvey nodded. Paul spoke softly into the phone, then looked up.

"Listen, you and I both want to go there, but it's gonna be crawling with mob guys who saw the EMS take him out," Paul said. "So if we go, we're going in a cruiser. You good with that?"

Harvey nodded. Paul said another few words, hung up, and reached for his coat. Harvey's phone rang when they were in the elevator.

"Okay, _what_ was that about?" Donna asked.

"Mike was shot," Harvey said.

"What?"

"I'm on the way to the hospital now. Make a note, before I forget, large personal donation to Teamsters Local 237, care of George Redfield," Harvey said. "I'll call back when I know more."

"Harvey, don't you -- "

"Later, Donna!" Harvey said, and hung up.

Paul kept him in the elevator, door propped open with one large hand, until two cruisers with sirens screaming pulled up in front of the building. He all but threw Harvey into one of them, settling in the front seat.

"Thanks," Paul said to the guy in uniform behind the wheel, who nodded at Harvey in the mirror. "Beth Israel."

"Related to the shooting we just had come over the radio?" the driver asked, pulling into traffic.

"It's Mike," Paul said.

"Ross Junior? Jesus," the driver replied. Harvey wondered just how many cops in New York knew Mike personally.

They pulled past several dark sedans as they circled around to the emergency entrance to the hospital. Paul noticed them, and so did the driver; Harvey was walked into Beth Israel under armed guard.

"Hey!" a woman in an EMS uniform called, waving at them. "You here about the shooting? John Doe's in surgery. I thought they were sending detectives."

"Unofficial," Paul said, showing his badge. "His name is Michael Ross."

"Thanks, he didn't have any ID on him. And you are?" she asked Harvey.

"His lawyer," Harvey said quickly. Paul gave him an approving look. "Harvey Specter."

"Oh, man," she said. "He was muttering the whole way in about specter, we thought he was delusional. Kept asking about his camera, too."

"Did he have one on him?" Paul asked.

"Sure. You want to see his effects?"

Mike's "effects", which were far less than he'd left with, consisted of bloodstained clothes cut off his body, a pair of boots, and a camera with a shattered lens. Paul popped it open and took out the SD card, holding it up. "You got a computer?"

One of the nurse's stations had a computer with an SD slot, and Paul slid it in while Harvey sorted through his clothing, looking for his phone.

"Holy shit," Paul said. Harvey looked up. "That's John Boccacho."

Harvey held up Mike's sweatshirt, feeling something thin and solid in the hem. He worked his fingers around it, finally wriggling a second card out without touching it. Paul took it and replaced the other one in the drive.

"And that," Paul said, when image after image appeared on the screen, "is a fuckton of pot. Oh, my God. What the hell was he doing?"

One of the photos showed Boccacho pushing open the door of the warehouse, Peterson at his elbow. Harvey felt the fear and surprise wear off, abruptly replaced with a new emotion: rage.

"I can give you the address where he took those photos," he said, as Paul took the second card out and carefully wrapped them both in paper, creating a makeshift evidence bag. "Just do me a favor."

"You're going to make NYPD very happy," Paul said. "Fire away."

"When you turn these over, tell the detectives the man with Boccacho is David Peterson, and if they work him over he'll give them Boccacho. They'll have to be careful, he's a lawyer."

"I'm gonna go meet the detectives," Paul said. "You stay here, where you won't get shot."

"Boccacho's probably the one who shot Mike," Harvey added.

"Don't worry," Paul said with a nasty smile. "We won't be gentle."

He left Harvey there, in the care of the driver who'd brought them.

For the next few hours, while Mike was in surgery, the world seemed suspended in time.

Harvey felt useless, so he did what he could: he made arrangements for a private room in the ICU, to be paid on his corporate card, and then called Donna, a conversation he didn't really remember except that he knew he told her there was going to be a large hospital charge on his card coming through. Then they made him sit in a surgery waiting room, as a succession of cops rotated in and out and live news footage of an enormous drug bust at a warehouse in south Manhattan played on the muted television in the corner. _John Boccacho still at large, wanted for questioning in connection to the warehouse where the drugs were found..._

Detectives came and asked him questions: how did he know Mike Ross and David Peterson, whether he had any business dealings with John Boccacho, how had he known the address that went with the photographs Ross had taken. Was he aware that in addition to the marijuana, they'd found bales of heroin on the second floor?

Harvey, lawyer instinct taking over, answered in short sentences, without detail, and they went away again.

Eventually, a nurse came and got him, to tell him that Mike was stabilized and resting in the ICU. A cop escorted him to the room, where two others checked his ID before they'd let him in, and then there was Mike: grey-skinned, dark bruises around his eyes, a ventilator mask on his face, half a dozen different tubes and wires hooked up to his arm, his chest, his hand.

Harvey stood over him, looking down, avoiding the blanket thrown back from his waist and the huge white bandage there.

"You got him," he said quietly, resting a palm around the curve of Mike's cool cheek. On reflection, he added, "and now I'm going to destroy him."

 

Mike woke to the sound of Harvey's voice, a reassuring low growl somewhere distant. He was warm, euphorically happy, and unwilling to move; he didn't even open his eyes before he'd drifted back down into unconsciousness.

The second time he woke, he heard a cellphone ringing. Harvey answered it, in the same comfortingly quiet tones he remembered from earlier. He decided he must be at Harvey's place, asleep on his couch -- and sleeping heavily, to judge from what had woken him. He should get up, walk around a little, check the locks at least. He struggled to open his eyes, to push himself up from the cushions.

Pain like jagged blades shuddered up his body from his hip, and he groaned, stilling. Some kind of cramp, maybe from the fight or...hadn't he been running? Where had he been running from?

He managed to get his eyes open, but the world was blurry and unfocused. A dark shape was leaning over him, and Mike guessed -- hoped -- it was Harvey.

"Lie still," Harvey's voice said.

"The locks," Mike tried to croak, but there was something muffling his mouth. Why was he on Harvey's couch, anyway? He'd left Paul to look after Harvey.

There was some kind of commotion, and Mike's protective urges kicked into overdrive. He tried to get up, because Harvey clearly needed defending from all these...pink and green things that were flying around the couch...

He woke for a third time to dull pain in his side and a consciousness that something was stuck in his arm. It didn't hurt, it was just sort of there, but all the same it was worrying.

He opened his eyes on a white fiber-board ceiling, flecked with gold, the same kind they had at his high school when he was a kid. He'd spent many a long, bored, sometimes stoned hour staring at the ceilings of his high school classrooms, already leagues ahead of the other kids struggling through John Mill or Supply And Demand or basic Geometry.

The thing in his arm turned out to be a needle, hooked to a tube, hooked to a bag; he followed it up until he realized he was lying in a hospital bed, on an IV.

There was a strange woman sitting in a chair, reading something on an iPad.

No, not strange; he rifled fuzzily through his memory until he came up with an image from a website: Jessica Pearson, Harvey's boss.

He tried to garble out some kind of greeting, aware he should make nice with the woman who controlled Harvey's fate. She looked up and smiled, which made her look a lot nicer.

"Michael," she said, and Mike nodded.

"Harvey," he managed, and then a whole chunk of memory hit him at once: leaving Harvey with Paul to go check out Boccacho's warehouse, taking pictures, running, pain like a stitch in his side only a thousand times worse, hands pulling him into the darkness --

"Michael? Stay with me for a minute," Jessica's voice said, and Mike fought with every ounce of strength to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. "There," she said, which must mean Mike looked reasonably conscious.

"Harvey?" he repeated, clearer this time. She waved a hand to her left, and Mike's eyes drifted over to where a little table was set up in a corner of the room. It was strewn with papers, and there was a closed laptop on one corner; Harvey was a dark slumped figure, faceplanted on the laptop, shoulders moving slowly.

"I said I'd stay until you woke up," Jessica said. "I didn't say I'd wake him up when you did."

"Photos," Mike said urgently. "Photos in my -- "

"They have them," Jessica told him gently. "It's taken care of."

"Bocc -- " Mike started, then coughed. Jessica pushed a button next to his bed.

"He's been detained by the police," she continued, settling back. "They picked him up outside the hospital, in fact. I guess he thought he'd strangle you personally."

"Warehouse?" Mike asked.

"I said it's taken care of," she replied. "Do you remember the shooting?"

A man entered the room, and Jessica looked up, so Mike did too.

"He needs some water," Jessica told the man, who nodded and left again.

"I remember everything," Mike said hoarsely.

"Harvey mentioned that," Jessica replied. Mike glanced back at the table where Harvey was sleeping. "He offered to help prosecute Boccacho. He's been working all afternoon. They gave him first-year gruntwork to do, I think just to keep him busy." She seemed to be studying Mike. "So you're the secret weapon," she added.

Mike made an interrogative noise.

"That's what Harvey calls you at the office. Donna calls you his Go To Guy. To be honest, for a while I thought she was moonlighting and they'd made you up," she said. The man returned with a cup and a straw; blessed relief, water on his parched throat, and Mike drank greedily until it was taken away again.

"Listen to me closely," Jessica said, "because you are still on a whole boatload of drugs, and I want you to remember this, so I'm going to put it very simply. Are you listening?"

Mike nodded. There was something almost hypnotic about the way she spoke; she had a sort of calm, effortless power that brooked no disobedience.

"You've been shot. You're safe in the hospital. The photos were found. Boccacho's being held without bail. Harvey's safe," she said, and Mike nodded. "I have to leave, and I'm taking Harvey with me. We'll be back tomorrow. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he rasped. "Thank you."

She smiled again. "He was right -- you do have good manners."

Mike desperately wanted to stay awake, to see Harvey and maybe talk to him, but he was so tired. He kept his eyes open long enough to see her shaking Harvey awake, but before Harvey lifted his head Mike was already unconscious again.

He woke once more before he got to see Harvey again -- in the darkness, in the night, panicked because he didn't know where he was or what was happening. After a few seconds of flat terror, Jessica's voice popped into his head:

 _You're safe. Harvey's safe. We'll be back tomorrow._

He clung to the thin thread of memory, following it back, and slept easier afterwards.

 

Jessica -- who had not woken him when Mike woke and only escaped being labeled a traitor in Harvey's mental filing cabinet by dint of being, well, Jessica -- had made him go home.

In fact she'd taken him home herself, something she'd done only twice before: once when she'd given a luckless mail room kid a ride to his place because he'd had his fare card stolen, and once when a certain junior partner had been so sick he hadn't even realized he was sick until she walked him out of the office and let him pass out on her in the cab.

So he realized he must have looked like he'd been in some kind of disaster, between the rumpled clothes, the ridge in the bottom of his cheek where the laptop he'd been sleeping on had pressed, and the bruise across the top of his cheek from a fight with someone trying to kill him. Only drastic situations merited a ride home from Jessica and an escort to his condo to make sure he actually went to bed.

In the morning, he was glad she'd done it. He'd put up all the shutters so the comforting lights of Manhattan could shine in, undressed enough that he wouldn't strangle some vital part of his anatomy in his sleep, and collapsed on the bed for a solid eight hours. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had eight unbroken hours of sleep.

Best of all, he was clear -- he could walk out the front door of his condo by himself, could stop for a coffee and catch a cab. He could walk into the hospital without a guard, without having to look over his shoulder.

When he approached Mike's ICU room, bearing both his own coffee and one for Mike, he heard voices -- Mike's first, and then Jessica's laughter. He stopped outside the door, listening with interest. He couldn't quite make out the words, but apparently Mike was charming his boss, which could only be good.

Hopefully.

He leaned in the doorway, shoulder to the jamb, and Mike looked up; his eyes were bright, skin a more healthy color. He was sitting up in bed eating a hospital breakfast.

"Harvey!" Mike said, almost losing a mouthful of prefab scrambled eggs. He swallowed hastily. "Hi!"

"Harvey," Jessica said, her tone more measured.

"Did I miss a meeting memo?" Harvey asked, amused.

"I was getting to know Michael a little better," Jessica said. "Seeing as he's responsible for so many...events at Pearson Hardman in the last few days. It's not every day someone takes a bullet in the service of one of our clients."

"Mike's quirky that way," Harvey agreed.

"I'll let you two catch up," Jessica added, rising. "I have to get back to cracking the whip at the firm. Michael, a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise, ma'am," Mike said.

"Harvey, take the day," Jessica murmured, sounding amused and sardonic, patting his shoulder as she passed. Harvey leaned into the hallway to watch her for a moment, then came in and closed the door. Mike was eyeing the coffee cups.

"Are you allowed caffeine?" Harvey asked, as he set one of the cups on Mike's breakfast tray.

"I've been shot. I _demand_ caffeine," Mike said, sipping it and making the most blissed-out face Harvey had ever seen.

"Little bit high?" Harvey asked.

"Just a little. They took me off the hard stuff because they're sadists," Mike replied, setting the cup down. "Thanks for the room, Jessica says you're paying for it. And sorry about yesterday."

"The part where you singlehandedly brought down an entire arm of the mafia, or the part where you got shot helping me out?" Harvey asked, resting a hip against the bed.

"Boccacho's really in prison?"

"He's detained without bail," Harvey replied. "They got his whole crew. And he's much too angry at Peterson right now to even think about you and me."

Mike took a bite of toast. "Peterson flipped?"

"Singing the sins of John Boccacho to the world," Harvey agreed. "He's going away for a very, very long time."

"Drew?"

"Like you said," Harvey answered. "He's pissed the state of New York has seized his land, but he doesn't know it's because of you."

"Technically it's because of you," Mike said, taking another hit of bliss off the coffee.

"Your idea," Harvey replied. "I'm not telling him that, but I'll be making the police aware. I think there's a reward involved. Jessica knows too. It's actually bringing us business -- he needs to file a ton of claims paperwork to get it back."

"Is that what you were working on last night?" Mike asked. "Jessica told me, I think, but I'm fuzzy on details."

"No, I have an associate filling out the forms," Harvey said. "Last night was preliminaries on Boccacho's arraignment. I can't prosecute him myself, but that doesn't mean I can't help."

"Case closed, then," Mike said lightly.

"Barring a few details," Harvey answered.

"Like what?"

Harvey drew a breath, looking down at him. "Listen, this is Haley's Comet, okay? Take a good look, because it won't happen again. I don't do apologies. But...I'm sorry I got you into this."

"I told you," Mike said. "It's my job."

"I get that. You get hurt, that's part of the deal, even when you work for me. That doesn't mean I'm not sorry it happened," Harvey replied. Mike gave him a level look, then apparently decided Harvey was telling the truth.

"Any news on when I get out of here?" he asked, picking at the fruit cup on his breakfast tray. "I hate hospitals. The food's all right, but the decor..." he waved a hand at the bare walls.

"The doctors will know. You lost a lot of blood."

"Yeah, but that just means mandatory bed rest," Mike said, like it wasn't a big deal that his vital fluids had been spattered all over some loading dock. "I can do that at home. Hey, did they find my backpack?" he added. "I left it in an access tunnel under the street."

"I'll let Paul know to go get it, if he hasn't already," Harvey said. "You've made him very happy, by the way. The narcotics team are recruiting him."

Mike smiled. "That's good, he deserves a break. So this is a win?"

"Yeah, it's a win," Harvey agreed. "You can invoice me any time you like."

Mike laughed, a slight edge of roughness to it. "How do you calculate pain and suffering?"

"Come on, my gumbo wasn't worth it? I'm hurt," Harvey answered. Mike gave him a slightly dopey smile.

"I could sue. You know any good lawyers?"

Harvey allowed himself a small laugh. "I'll bring you some more gumbo."

"Is that a bribe?"

"Consider it a settlement."

Mike nodded, pushing his tray off to the side. Harvey took the tacit invitation and sat down on the edge of the bed, still turned to look at him.

"I almost died," Mike said.

"I said I was sorry."

"Wow, let's make this about you," Mike replied with a grin. "I'm just saying, my priorities are a little shaken up after that."

"Are we having this talk now?" Harvey asked.

"Do you think there's really going to be a better time?" Mike shrugged, wincing. "It's not easy for me, you know, I spend most of my time watching people be unfaithful. Untrustworthy. It makes trusting difficult. And you're conditioned not to care, to win, but relationships aren't about winning."

"It doesn't have to be a relationship -- "

"With me? Yeah, Harvey, it does. I don't sleep around, I don't have the time," Mike said. "And I don't think you want a quick fuck because I'm a glamorous detective," he added sardonically. Harvey shook his head. "The point is, there's a big part, the Investigator part, that says this is a train wreck, you and me."

Harvey just watched him, wondering where this was going. It wasn't like it was untrue, but Mike was different. Mike could keep up with him, had an ego that was intact enough to brush off Harvey's occasional inadvertent cruelties as his flaws, not Mike's.

And it wasn't about feeling safe. That he was sure of, because if any relationship was unsafe, it was one with a man who refused to let someone else compromise the dangerous job he loved.

"Thing is, as I have found out," Mike continued, "I'd kill for you. Without being paid, not because it's my job. In a heartbeat, I would. And I think I can trust you, because you only lie when you're paid to lie."

"I don't _lie_ ," Harvey said.

"Prevaricate? Bend the truth?" Mike smiled at him. "Harvey, you're a lawyer. You play games all the time, but you only lie on the clock. Off the clock..."

He looked down at his hands. "I like games. I like to be challenged. And I like you. So life's too short not to break the rules."

Harvey leaned forward, careful to rest his weight above Mike's shoulder where it wouldn't shift him on the bed, and kissed him. Mike's lips were chapped, and his hands were a little uncoordinated, scrambling at Harvey's shirt before finding purchase on his arms. His teeth caught in the half-healed nick on Harvey's lip, and in the background Harvey could hear Mike's heart monitor jump slightly.

It was a great kiss.

"Plus you have a sweet condo," Mike said against his mouth, and Harvey laughed and bowed his head a little more, resting their foreheads together.

"Come home with me, then," he said, eyes closed. "When they let you out. You can break in the new couch."

Mike laughed; first, clearly, at the couch remark, but then his tone shifted slightly, triumphantly, and Harvey leaned back.

"You just played me," he said. "You played me to get an invite to stay at my place."

"You totally fell for it, too," Mike replied with a grin. "Oh man, Harvey. We're gonna have _fun_ together."

 

They kept Mike at the hospital for another five days, until they could be sure he wouldn't pull his stitches or stretch anything internal that would start to bleed.

Harvey fell into a reasonable, if not comfortable routine: Donna scheduled his client meetings in the morning, when Mike was sleepy and cranky anyway, and in the afternoon he'd take his work with him to the hospital and sit with Mike. He was capable of holding reasonably coherent conversations while he worked, and sometimes he gave Mike some of his proofing to keep him busy if he had to concentrate. Eventually Ray or Donna would bring them dinner, because Mike might like hospital food but Harvey suspected a rare steak from Marea was helping his anemia more than the hospital's anonymous "meat" lasagne. Besides, there was no reason he should suffer just because Mike had to.

Mike cycled through periods of complaining, threatening, and cajoling as he tried to get released early; when he'd been giving shit to one particular orderly all afternoon, Harvey finally sat back and asked, "What's the deal? You're getting out in two days, just relax."

"Why can't I leave now?"

"Well, you can against medical advice, but if you leave before the doctors tell you I'm rescinding my offer to stay at my place and be swaddled in luxury," Harvey replied. "Seriously. There's a bigger issue here than boredom. What's going on?"

Mike, looking annoyed, rolled over on his side in the bed, presenting his back and the smaller but still very vivid white bandage on the entrance wound. Harvey shrugged and went back to work.

"It's my grandmother," Mike said finally. "I see her every week, and it's been almost two weeks."

"She doesn't own a phone?"

"We talked a couple of times. It's not the same. She's worried, too, and when she worries she stops taking her meds, and she gets all..." a movement in Mike's shoulder told Harvey he'd probably waved a hand.

"So have her visit."

"She's in care," Mike said. "She can't really get around much anymore."

"Then there's nothing to be done, so you might as well stop sulking," Harvey said. "When you get out, I'll take you to see her before we go home."

"Are you bribing me with treats?" Mike asked, rolling over.

"Is it working?"

Mike reached out and tugged on his sleeve; Harvey rolled his eyes, but he put the paperwork down and leaned over to kiss him.

It was about all they could do, between the semi-public nature of the hospital, the doctors and nurses who tended to appear without warning, and Mike's injury. Mike, he knew, wanted more -- the way he kissed, the way he liked to hook his fingers in Harvey's vest and hold him there, the way he _looked_ at him sometimes all demanded more -- but it was Harvey's turn to be cautious. Mike was good at keeping people safe, at ferreting out information Harvey needed, but when it came to himself he wasn't cautious and he wasn't patient. Harvey was already the cause of one injury; he had no desire to be the cause of another.

"Two more days," Harvey said gently, because Mike, whether he knew it or not, wanted gentleness right now. Harvey was nothing if not talented at knowing what people wanted. Mike nodded, looking less annoyed, at least.

The day Harvey was supposed to pick Mike up, he arrived at his office to find Jessica sitting comfortably in his desk chair. It was an old trick she used to pull when she was a Junior Partner and he was an Associate; a reminder that no matter how cool or rich or successful he was...well, she'd always be taller than him.

"Am I in trouble?" he asked, standing in front of his own desk like a schoolboy called into the principal's office. He couldn't think of anything he'd done recently that would anger her more than usual.

"We need to talk about Mike Ross," she replied, and waved him into a chair. "I hear he's recuperating gracelessly."

"He's an action hero," Harvey said. "Hospitals don't suit him."

"I've been asking around, quietly," she continued. "Ross works for some very important people. He's done some work for various local politicians and for some big investment firms."

Harvey tilted his head, waiting for her to make her point.

"He's exceptionally discreet," she added. "Remember the scandal in the Mayor's office last year?"

"There was no scandal in the Mayor's office last year."

Jessica spread her hands.

"He's one of the top people in his field, and until this past week I'd never heard his name," she said. "Do you know why that is?"

"You have me to do the kind of work that requires a PI?" he asked.

"He doesn't work for lawyers," she replied. "Pearson Hardman is the only firm Mike Ross will work for."

"Well, we do have a stellar reputation."

"Because of you, Harvey," she said, leaning forward. "He's refused lucrative freelance work and contracts with other firms because it might cause a conflict of interest with the work he does for you."

Harvey gave her a smug look.

"I'd like you to make him an offer," she said, passing a slim Pearson Hardman folder to him. "We can use someone with his skills in our Research department."

Harvey studied the contract and offer letter in the folder. It was generous, for an opening bid.

"I don't think he'll accept," he said, closing it.

"Why?"

"I told you. He's an action hero. He doesn't want an office job."

"Can you close him on it?"

"I could, but I won't," Harvey told her. "I kinda made him a promise to that effect."

"He anticipated the offer?"

"He anticipated that I might try to keep him safe."

Jessica raised her eyebrows, but she didn't remark on the intimacy implied by his response.

"Make the offer. I'll leave the rest up to you," she said. "Either way, I may have business for him in the future."

 

Mike was, secretly, a little worried about Harvey's potential reaction to his grandmother; he sort of wished Harvey had just said he'd wait in the car, but Harvey waited in the car for no man.

Gram, fortunately, mostly ignored Harvey. Mike knew she'd worried about him, but when he finally got free from the hospital and came to see her, she didn't show it. She interrogated him about the case, demanded to know if he'd done as she'd taught him to do when someone was shooting at him, and then made him turn over his gun so she could check that he'd cleaned it properly.

"He needs so much looking-after," she said to Harvey, as she checked the gun.

"I'm discovering that," Harvey said, and actually winked at Mike as she handed the gun back. Mike holstered it quickly and pulled his jacket over it.

"Don't worry about being subtle, Michael. Most of the men in this room fought in World War II, they're not unfamiliar with guns," his grandmother said.

"Force of habit," Mike answered. "Anybody around here cause any trouble?"

"Bless you, no," she said. "My cover is intact."

Mike grinned and kissed her forehead, pressing the heel of his hand to his wound when it twinged. "In that case I'm going to go recuperate. Keep the Parcheesi board handy, I'll be back in a few days."

By the time they got to Harvey's, Mike felt exhausted. True to form, Harvey had bought a new couch to replace the one with the bullethole -- black microfiber this time, not leather, and Mike eased himself gratefully into its plush confines, stroking the luxurious upholstery in appreciation.

"Come on," Harvey said, bypassing him, popping open the door to the glass elevator that went between floors. Mike had always thought the elevator was either a leftover from some really old person who lived there before Harvey, or an unbelievable pretention in an unbelievably pretentious home. Just then he was grateful for it, because the stairs looked unpleasant.

When they walked out, Mike immediately noticed the change, superimposing the old furniture arrangement over the new one in his mental gallery.

The couch and chair near the glass had been moved to the other side of the room, almost overlooking the downstairs living room; Harvey's bed, placed central like some kind of monument, had been pushed over closer to the glass, and a second bed sat between Harvey's and the sofa.

Mike squinted at it. It was smaller than Harvey's, a little, but still bigger than the one he had at home.

"I don't have a guest room," Harvey said. "You'll have to make do."

"You bought me a bed?" Mike asked. It had a really comfortable looking blue duvet on it.

"Well, you did save my life," Harvey answered.

"I wasn't aware beds were the going exchange for that," Mike answered, sitting down on the bed and pulling the duvet around his shoulders. It was poofy and smooth and perfect. He pulled it tighter and peered out at Harvey from inside it.

"The couch isn't that great for sleeping on, and..." Harvey glanced back at his own bed. "I didn't want to presume."

"Yes, because you never do that," Mike answered. Harvey grinned. "What are you going to do with it when I don't need it anymore?"

Harvey looked indifferent. "Sell it. Donate it. Maybe get a really big dog?"

Mike got up, pulling the duvet with him, and crossed the room, past Harvey to the bed under the glass, looking down at the just-dimming streets below. He settled on the bed, staring out for a while, and then turned around.

"Take a memo," Mike announced.

"Excuse me?" Harvey gave him an affronted look.

"For sale, one bed, like new," Mike said, toeing his shoes off and pulling his legs up under the duvet, lying down with his head on one of Harvey's pillows. "Best offer accepted."

"Look..." Harvey frowned. "You're going to need your own bed for a while. You'll heal faster."

"Man, you're slow on the uptake," Mike answered, gazing up at him.

"I'm pretty sure I'm picking up on the message," Harvey replied. "I'm not being irrelevant." His lips curled up in a smile as he settled on the edge of the bed, hips in the curl of Mike's body. "Trust me, it's a short walk between them."

Mike sat up, the wound twinging again, their heads almost level.

"I am not fragile," he said. "We've been kissing like virgins for days. This is pretty...I don't know, courtly, but I know what I want. I'm here and alive and so are you, and I'm throwing the rules out for you, so I can sleep in my bed later."

Harvey looked like he was going to ask -- like he was going to say _Are you sure?_ because of the gunshot wound and it'd be the same tone half a dozen ex-lovers had used when Mike put on a gun or said he'd be out late or took a new client.

 _Are you sure you should, Mike? Are you sure you don't want something different? Are you sure you'll be safe? Are you sure you want to do something so dangerous?_

And he waited with almost objective resignation, waited for one more person he thought would be different to treat him like a child.

"I want to show you something," Harvey said, standing up, and Mike blinked in confusion. Harvey went to the briefcase he'd been hauling around since he picked Mike up and took a folder out, tossing it across the room to him. Mike released the corners of the blanket he'd been holding, caught it, and opened it.

He skimmed the first page, a formal legal offer letter, and then disbelievingly flipped to the second. This was worse than the time Trevor bought him a bulletproof vest, and he'd thought that was an all time "Nobody thinks Mike can hack it" low.

"Jesus," Mike said, staring down at the first paragraph of a confidentiality clause. He looked up at Harvey. "The fuck is wrong with you?"

"Before you -- "

"Seriously. I ask you for one thing, all I want is for you not to be a headcase about my work like every other person I've dated!"

"Just wait -- " Harvey started, but Mike cut him off.

"And I really thought you got it, I really thought just once -- "

" _I didn't write the contract_ ," Harvey interrupted, the closest Mike had ever heard to him shouting.

"My name's on it!" Mike said.

"It wasn't my idea," Harvey replied.

"And yet here you are, handing it to me."

"Well, when my boss tells me to do something, I pay lip service at least," Harvey answered sharply. Mike shut the folder, looking up at him. "She's impressed by you. She had the contract and the offer drawn up. She told me to bring it to you."

Mike gave him a narrow look. "And what did you say?"

Harvey tipped his chin up slightly. "I said I thought you'd say no. I said you liked your work. She told me to close you."

"Did you think you could?"

"I know I could, if I had to," Harvey answered. "I told her I wouldn't. I said I made a promise."

"Why are you showing this to me now?"

"You really think I should have fucked you first and _then_ insulted you?" Harvey asked.

Mike stared down at the pastel green folder, with its delicate silver lettering and well-intentioned, earnest, potentially poisonous contract inside.

"So you aren't like everyone else," he said quietly.

"Why be pedestrian?" Harvey asked. Mike let the contract fall to the floor and pulled the blanket around him again, trying to balance the two things out -- that Harvey had cooked for him, had pursued him, had invited him here to look after him and _bought him a bed_...yes, and brought him the contract, but wasn't interested in convincing him to sign it.

Harvey, slowly and carefully, knelt on the bed, easing around Mike, catching him with a broad hand between the shoulderblades as he tipped backwards. Mike settled down in a mess of blankets and pillows, Harvey propped over him and avoiding his hip, but not the rest of his body -- long legs stretched against Mike's, one knee slightly crooked to push Mike's thighs apart, chest pressing against his with every breath. Mike slung one arm over his shoulders, hand tangling in the hair at the back of his head, and worked at Harvey's tie with the other.

They kissed for a long time, not the quick stolen seconds in the hospital but deep, like they had the last time they'd been here, when Mike had said no, or at least _not yet_. Mike got Harvey's tie undone and threw it aside; Harvey grunted in annoyance but slid a warm hand up under his t-shirt regardless, fingers just brushing the edges of the taped-down bandage.

"Don't go easy on me," Mike said, working on the buttons of Harvey's vest, the shirt underneath.

"Maybe I want to," Harvey replied. "Maybe you'd like it."

"Harvey -- " Mike meant to protest, he really did, but Harvey's hand flattened along his ribcage soothingly.

"Easy," he said into Mike's neck. "Some other time you can prove you're not breakable."

Mike relaxed a little, pushing Harvey's shirt open, and Harvey grinned and rolled them sharply, quick but careful, so that Mike was straddling him. He shoved Mike's shirt up and off, his own pooling around his body, smooth chest bare in the slowly dimming light.

"Hey," Mike said, grinning as Harvey's hands settled on his hips. "Is it true at work you call me the Secret Weapon?"

"How did you -- Jessica," Harvey interrupted himself. Mike tapped him on the nose. "I only do it to annoy other people."

"Like who?" Mike started to work on his fly, fingers occasionally dancing out to splay across his stomach.

"Does it matter?" Harvey ran a hand up his chest appreciatively.

"Misdirecting, your honour." Mike splayed his pants open, tugging them down with his underwear just enough to reveal his erection -- thick, eagerly hard, but as controlled as the rest of him.

"That's not a valid legal objection," Harvey managed, even as Mike slicked his hand over it, stroked and explored. Harvey's hips arched up a little, seeking more contact.

"You should sue," Mike leaned forward carefully, but Harvey had anticipated the move; his hand caught Mike's weight above the bandage and eased down with him.

"Contempt is a jailable offense," Harvey breathed, his other hand fumbling between them, trying to get Mike's pants off.

"Is that contempt you're encountering?" Mike asked, shoving his hips against Harvey's seeking hand.

"You don't ever shut up, do you?" Harvey asked with another groan.

"Makes me interesting," Mike replied. He tugged and rolled, and Harvey went easily with the motion, sliding on top of him again. "How's this for direct: I want to fuck you."

Harvey tugged on Mike's hips, an obscene imitation of fucking, and Mike bit down on a yelp as his wound made itself known. "Son of a bitch!"

"That's why we do it like this," Harvey said, but his voice was gentle more than stern, and he'd finally worked Mike's pants open. "You might be independent but you're not immortal."

"Stupid permeable bodies," Mike muttered, pressing a hand tightly to his hip. Harvey rested his hand over it, thumb brushing Mike's knuckles in an odd caress, and then tugged Mike's thigh up around his own. His weight was slightly off-center but their cocks brushed, light, enticing, and Mike twisted a little to arch into it. Harvey kissed him again and the pain faded.

"Is this good?" Harvey asked. Mike wriggled against him, grinning.

"Ask me that again and I'm putting my pants back on," he said.

Harvey bent lower, eyes inches from his. His smile told Mike that he'd badly misjudged -- that he'd been played, and now he was (oh dear god, please) going to pay for it.

"Can't have that," Harvey murmured.

 

Harvey knew (because like attracted like, he thought drily) that Mike could be a prickly, standoffish asshole. He had rules, like Harvey had rules, and just because he was breaking them didn't mean the underlying reason they existed wasn't guiding his actions. He was quick to judge and still wary, not always able to separate genuine affection from a desire to control.

Harvey liked control, but he knew when to give it up. And he knew what it felt like to walk away from someone who wanted what couldn't be given, not without too much sacrifice. Damned if he'd put Mike through that again.

The Mike under him now, though, wriggling against him and pleading low for more, not to stop...such a beautiful, demanding boy, offering up submission with one hand and denying it fervently with the other...

Harvey could work with this. Because under the defensive aggression, Mike wanted to be cared for, and he might not have a lot of experience with caring but his instincts were usually good. Mike wanted gentleness and was afraid to ask for it because it was so easily mistaken for manipulation.

"Shh, easy," he repeated, pinning Mike with his body, drawing his hands over Mike's shoulders and grasping his wrists. He pulled them up until Mike's hands rested on either side of his head, then bent and nipped along his throat as he twined their fingers together. Mike bucked, twisting, and Harvey allowed it; he knew Mike could throw him in an instant if he had to, he'd seen Mike take down men heavier than he was -- but Mike, perhaps, wasn't certain of that yet. Instead he let him feel the give, let him find his way through the combination of their bodies, thigh against thigh, the pads of Mike's fingers over his skin, the way they intertwined when Mike's lips brushed Harvey's temple.

"God, I want you so bad," Mike said hoarsely, hips rolling up, their dicks sliding easily now. Harvey felt sweat pool between his shoulders, trickle down under the shirt he was still wearing, drop from his ribcage onto Mike's stomach, slicking them both. "Please -- "

"Please what?" Harvey asked. Mike cried out, breath quickening. "Tell me what you want, Mike."

He had him almost -- almost sheltered, but not caged. Mike's leg was twined up over his, but Harvey's other leg was tucked under Mike's, holding him steady and tilting Harvey off his injury. His shirt fell around Mike's body like a screen shielding him from the outside world. He had his hands pinned, and Mike's face was pressed into his jaw, seeking something only he could put a name to.

Mike rocked forward, suddenly silent, suddenly tense; he finally made a noise, somewhere between pain and satisfaction, and Harvey felt him come between their bodies. Harvey groaned, his own orgasm rolling through him like a wave, and barely managed to catch his weight as he collapsed on top of him.

Mike was shaking.

Harvey released his hand, meaning to inspect the wound, to make sure it hadn't started to bleed, but Mike was gripping them tightly. He started to ask if he was okay, then stopped; Mike would tell him if it hurt. That was the deal. That was...an amount of trust he hadn't expected to be able to give, let alone receive in return.

"Hey, it's okay," he said, kissing Mike's jaw, the curve just below his brow, his mouth. "Shh, it's fine."

They lay there for a while, until Mike relaxed enough to let go of his hands. Harvey settled back a little, propping himself on his elbows. "Okay?"

Mike nodded. "Okay. That was..."

"Intense."

"Yes. For you too?" Mike asked.

"Less for me," Harvey said thoughtfully. "I think I had less to lose."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "You're also not sporting a gunshot wound. Gimme a few weeks."

Harvey slid back and off, carefully, and reached for Mike's shirt.

"Nuh uh," Mike replied, sitting up -- wincing -- and taking it out of his hand. "You use your own stupid shirt for cleanup."

"This is hand-tailored linen."

"That's my favorite shirt."

"For the love of -- " Harvey rolled his eyes. He stumbled to his feet and pulled Mike up after him, into him. He shed his own shirt while they kissed, then hooked a finger in the belt loop of the jeans Mike was still wearing and led him along to the bathroom. "Are you supposed to keep the bandage dry?"

"Little late for that," Mike replied, reaching for a washcloth and cleaning himself up. He peeled back a corner of the bandage, then glanced up. Harvey offered his hand.

Mike stood still, only leaning forward a little to nose at Harvey's cheek as Harvey peeled off the damp bandage. He sucked air through his teeth at the angry puckered skin under it, but he could see where it was healing -- pink and then white, the edges cleanly scabbed over.

"There's bandages in my bag," Mike said quietly. "I can't do my back anyway, can you...?"

Harvey nodded, and Mike brushed past him out into the bedroom, fetching his backpack from the corner. The medical kit they'd sent home with him lay on top of his gun and holster; Harvey saw the gleam of leather as Mike offered him a thick wad of gauze and a roll of medical tape.

"You've done this before," Mike said, as Harvey expertly bit the tape off at the right length, working efficiently on the front before moving to his back to peel the bandage off there.

"Not on a gunshot wound," Harvey said, smoothing tape onto his skin. "High school athletics. Theory's the same, though."

He patted the last of the tape down, then slid an arm around Mike and pulled him back easily, curling around him. Mike sighed and let his head fall back.

"I wouldn't mind some sleep now," he admitted. Harvey nodded.

"Your bed or mine?" he asked. Mike pressed a hand to his hip, and Harvey felt his hesitation. "It's okay to say yours."

"I think I need some room," Mike admitted.

"Yeah, you look a little like roadkill," Harvey agreed.

"Hey!"

Harvey kissed his temple and let him go, picking up the duvet they had rigorously defiled and settling it back on Mike's bed. Mike crawled under the sheets, curled up in the blanket, and sighed happily, closing his eyes. Harvey stood in the dim room for a while, gathering his thoughts.

"Watching people sleep is creepy," Mike mumbled after a moment.

"Indulge me," Harvey said, crossing his arms.

"Go do lawyer things." A hand snaked out from under the duvet and waved him off. Harvey smiled, went to his briefcase, and then settled on his own bed with some contracts to review.


	4. Epilogue

"Harvey," Donna said, when he picked up the phone. "Action Hero's calling on line one."

"Put him through," Harvey replied, and the line clicked. "Why so clingy, Mike? I called you on Tuesday."

Mike laughed. "I just can't get enough of your phone sex voice. Sorry, but you had the thing on Wednesday and I was in transit this morning."

"Transit? Where are you?"

"Boston. Super-boring research for the blackmail case. Won't take long, though, I'll be back tomorrow morning."

Harvey glanced at his calendar. "I have a brunch."

"It's so hard being a big-shot lawyer."

"It'll probably roll over into lunch, but I can ditch on an afternoon meeting if you want."

"No need, I'm going to hand over the research and then crash for a while. Dinner?"

"It might have to be quick." Friday night dinner and a weekend naked with Mike sounded like the best thing that could happen to him all month, but if brunch went well he'd have a merger to facilitate --

"On the phone with your boyfriend?" a voice asked, and Harvey looked up -- first at Louis, standing in his usual cloud of annoyance in his office, then at Donna's desk, where she was conspicuously absent.

"Hold that thought," Harvey said, and covered the receiver. "Did you need something, Louis?"

"Parvill," Louis said. "Your brunch tomorrow. I want in."

"I'll bring you a juice box."

"I mean it, Harvey. I know you can get him in but once he's in I want a piece of it."

"And why would I do that?" Harvey asked, suddenly blessing Donna for her absence.

"Because you know Parvill's a demanding prick and he's going to go over your sloppy-ass merger work with a fine-tooth comb," Louis replied.

"I didn't notice Jessica mentioning you when she assigned me and my sloppy-ass merger work to Parvill," Harvey replied. He could hear Mike snickering on the phone.

"I notice you don't deny how badly you suck at merger contracts."

"Oh my God, is this fifth grade again? I'm overdressed," Harvey said. "Look, if you want it that badly, here's the deal. I'm gonna go to Parvill and close him and I will graciously let you draw up the merger. If it looks tight, you can be in on the finalizing meetings."

"That's all I'm asking," Louis said, and turned to go.

"Mike," Harvey said, before he was out of earshot. "Good news, I just found a sucker to do my Friday night work. Free for dinner."

Louis, in the doorway, stiffened and stopped walking.

"You're such a dick," Mike said affectionately.

"Love you too. See you at eight," Harvey said, and hung up.

Louis pivoted. "Were you _actually_ on the phone with your boyfriend?"

"Is that a problem?" Harvey asked, leaning back.

"Since when do you have relationships that last longer than it takes for the scotch to wear off?"

"I'm impressed that you called me a slut instead of focusing on the gay part," Harvey said. Louis rolled his eyes. "No, honestly, I'm actually a little hurt. It's been four months and you're just now asking about him?"

"Four months? Is he deranged?"

"Am I talking with you about my sex life? No," Harvey said. "Get lost, I'll call you when I've closed Parvill."

"Seriously though," Louis persisted. "Four months and you haven't paraded him around the office? Is he hideous? You're not banging an associate, are you?"

"Calm down, princess, you know you're the first love of my heart," Harvey said. "Stop asking awkward questions."

"Does he work here?"

Harvey gave him a _Did I not just say...?_ look.

"I'll find out, you know I will."

"My hand to God, Louis, if you interrogate the associates I'm calling the ASPCA on you," Harvey replied. "He doesn't work here."

"Louis!" Donna said brightly, brushing past him into Harvey's office. "So sorry you were just leaving."

"But I -- " Louis began, and Donna tutted. "You don't even -- "

"Goodbye," she said, and used the door to physically push him out. Harvey smiled on her as she sat down in front of his desk.

"I just came out to Louis," he said. "Cross that one off the bucket list."

"He's taking it well," Donna observed. "It'll be all over the office an hour from now."

"Surprisingly, I think that was part of my plan. Hey, did you know Mike was in Boston?"

"Well, I don't officially keep his social calendar, but I do know everything," she replied, giving him a mysterious grin. "You miss him?"

"Who has the time?" Harvey asked. "If I'm not working late, he's on surveillance. He has the day off, I have a brunch."

"But?" Donna said gently.

Harvey shrugged. "It works for us. Keeps him from feeling smothered, keeps me from having to foist work off on Louis more than absolutely necessary."

"Should I book a table at Marea for tomorrow?"

Harvey smiled. "Eight o'clock."

 

Mike got in from Boston at ten in the morning, right around the time he judged Harvey would be settling in for croissants and mimosas with his new client-to-be. He caught a cab to their place -- well, he still technically had an apartment, but most of his clothing and all of his tech was migrating into Harvey's closet -- and crashed out for a few hours of sleep. Which turned into more than a few hours, he guessed, when he woke to the soft dip of Harvey's weight settling next to him on the bed. He opened his eyes into Harvey's face, a few inches from his.

"Hey," he said sleepily. "Close Parvill?"

"Yep. Get your dirt on the blackmailer?"

"Tied up with a bow." Mike yawned, then flinched. Harvey's fingers drifted lightly over the shiner on his cheek.

"You wear a Yankees cap to Fenway?" he asked.

"Bouncer at a nightclub."

"Put him on his ass?"

"'Course," Mike said, listening to the other conversation in his head, the one he was grateful not to be having:

 _Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?_

 _It's not a big deal._

 _I don't like it when you get hurt._

 _It's the job._

 _I don't like your job._

Harvey _didn't_ like it when Mike got hurt, he knew, but he didn't blame Mike, or the job -- just made sure that if Mike was bruised, the other guy was bruised worse.

It sounded insensitive, whenever he tried to explain it, but it didn't feel that way. It felt good. It felt like somebody had his back.

"Good news, by the way," Harvey said. He sounded, for Harvey, almost gleeful. "Boccacho's retrial appeal was epically demolished in court this afternoon. He's in for life. Supermax. Someone seems to have the idea that anything less would keep him at the head of the gang."

"Don't know how they thought of that," Mike answered, a little gleeful himself. "I hear supermax is really boring."

"Boring isn't the word I'd use," Harvey told him.

"Violent and horrible?"

"Somewhere on the scale between the two." Harvey adjusted his body slightly, pulling Mike closer with an arm around his waist.

"You're trying to distract me from something," Mike said.

"Yes."

"Are you seriously going to make me turn that into a direct question?"

Harvey was silent for a minute or two.

"No," he said finally. "I came out at work."

"That's nice," Mike answered. "You want a cookie?"

"I want you to come to the firm Christmas party with me."

"M'kay." Mike pressed his nose into the knot of Harvey's tie. "You smell good."

"You haven't had sex since Monday."

"Technically we had sex on Tuesday."

"Dirty talk on the phone doesn't count."

"If dirty talk doesn't count, you're doing it wrong," Mike said. "What time is it?"

"Six-thirty. We have a table at eight."

"Good, I love being arm candy," Mike mumbled. "Can I sleep another half an hour?"

"Knock yourself out," Harvey said.

"Stay?"

"You're so needy," Harvey replied, and Mike grinned into his shirt. "Yeah, fine, I have to keep you happy somehow."

"You make me very happy," Mike mumbled, loose and relaxed.

"You too, tough guy," Harvey answered, as Mike drifted back into sleep.


End file.
